The waves of those blurred mists
Are just calling for rhyming
But I told that I'm just a poor one
I can't really write poetic stuff,
Though I love to call it poetry in motion,
Oh! This gush, is what I'm scribbling
And not really always the sweet winds.
Those light steams just caressed,
Tried to cool me down, calm me,
Clasping my lids and just trying to listen
What it has to say to me,
I'm finding my solace,
In the purest rides of clouds.
Switching off the whirlpools,
These threads of air, resting me
Making me dip inside the slumbers of peace.
The waves of those blurred mists,
Are now what I'm dreaming.
Awake I'm scribbling.
©err1585

Move. Like that slow wind.
Flow, steadily.
Let every heart listen you.
Those hearts, which can hark,
Hark too deep.
Keep moving.
Let the eccentricities sprinkle,
Not just fill in the voids opaque
But translucent, invisible.
Be silent, serene, calm,
Singing your own song,
Make your direction,
Follow no trail...
Move. Singularly​, steadily, slowly,
Like that unplugged music,
Those unheard whisperings,
Those withering spiraling blowy
Tranquilized​ winds.
©err1585

Rich shat
in chair
and spat
the mail
with a  
bogey and
they wept
over my
gracious note
they even
returned my
stamp yesterday
noon unread
not denied
appeal from
sunshine in
my heart.

Could it have happened any differently?
Perhaps. But which fork in the road was it?
Where does the path start to unravel?
A change in the way things are
Would have changed everything else as well.

For all the mistakes bemoaned, lessons
Learned – unless vanity stands in the way –
Or the same error repeated
With different actors playing the same role –
Hero and villain alike.

And the split between people of insignificance and
The people that matter – faces splashed on
Tabloids and magazine covers –
The invisible reduced to mere shadows
Floating on the fringes of light.

Shadows have a way of defining the light.
People have a way of shaping our lives,
Setting in motion our trajectories,
The way banks and boulders guide water in a river –
The wind, a fallen tree.

No absence made a hole in the day of someone
Who was never there.
What’s out of our control – people,
Sequences of events. What’s inevitable –
How we choose to react.

How one must declare his way of thinking,
Without offending another's way of breathing,
How must one walk his own journey,
While plowing through the lilies of the field?

The silent chill of the nights sweet calling,
Will one ignore the way it is drawing-
The coat around the stranger's back,
The wool it clings like soppy wet paper.

The pines reaching into the black silky sky,
Stealing wonder, boasting like the badger -
Make shifting the scene into his own world,
Backbone reaching, strong, furrowed.

A note, a baby's innocent cry, a laugh
Seemingly part of every single night-
One does not live without repercussion,
There is no passive in passion,
everything around is connecting,
This, offended men, is this possible to deny?

Just tips of icebergs
In the hazy mist
Could seem as though
They were harmless
But we all knew,
Deep in our hearts,
There was more to it.
Because when seasons change
And our hearts turn sour
There's always reason for pain
Always an exposed nail in the board
To take all of the blame.
Because our eyes deceive us
And we believe others can change
But there's a reason why
We cringe and shake our heads
When we hear their names.
Because we're only human
And though we wish they weren't,
Things will always be difficult
And we'll always have icebergs.

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from which unknown files emerged,
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