The onlooker somehow fears this billowing
almost a smoke erupting from ancient landscapes
a smoke that a voice possesses
a voice that it owns, and uses to persuade,
sears into the mind with something
insubstantial yet tangible at its centre
as of a dark blaze suddenly ignited
shifting, drifting into a murderous haze
morphing into half-imagined shapes and shades

Endless thinking..thinking.. thinking.. thinking..  thinking
******, this is how thinking can far, far, too often feel
as if one's poor head is spinning around and around
or as if one's a poor dizzy gerbil imprisoned in a wheel
it's as if one's poor old mind is far too full of thoughts
with far more crowding in on it than they really ought
And, why, oh why, to further blight one's piteous plight
does thinking far too often plague one very late at night
for when one's about to drop off into much-needed sleep
come silly sneaky little thoughts suggestive and too deep
That's why  if  I am  struggling to settle down late at night
I save myself from going crazy and lots of poems write!

No instant click of a switch transforms a life
for life is but a late Summer's dawning
the unpredictable mixing of a storm
bright sun, dark clouds, rain's tears
and doubt's distant thunder's warning

Death does not distinguish between the evil and the good
Death knows of no class barriers nor respects any neighborhood
Death does not time by watch or clock when he comes to call
nor cares what weapons he uses to put an end to all

Death wears no distinguishing marks his identity to show
does not live in lofty Mansions nor in basements down below
He may drive a Jaguar or Rolls or a far less desirable car
he may come from close to hand or may travel wide and far

He may carry a gun or sword or bomb it matters not to him
he may by careful planning come or just appear at a whim
he may well appear in designer gear or rags all tattered and torn
he may be full of beard and hair or his head be covered or shorn

He may be young and fair of face, or beautifully formed
or be the skulking stranger disheveled and deformed or
the man at the Barber's, with sharp scissors in his hand
or the man with the laptop quietly studying devilish plans

He may look like the man who long has lived next door
or the one who's just moved into your neighborhood
he may look like a shifty stranger or the man who at
Church or temple or Mosque seems to be doing good

Never trust in Death to appear as you would wish him to
for Death has a thousand disguises to mystify me and you
he's the Universal Sorceror, the man of the changing face
he comes to all, in every land, is known to all and every race

Death may even be a woman, she of the sweetened smile
she of the husky voice who can enthrall you and beguile
Death may even be that youngster with a grenade in hand
Death may appear in your home town or in a distant land

Death has been the final enigma, through time to times anon
and Death shall wait in the wings of the great Theatre of life
Until the great curtains close and all the audience has gone
And all shall look upon Death when their life draws to an end
but shall Death at the first look be repulsed as an enemy
would be - or with open arms be welcomed as a friend?

Tears are something that I shed almost every day
looking at the manner in which we treat this world
seeing the awesome beauty in the flower that unfurls
caressing the softness of a beloved Grandson''s curls
Yes, I know that tears are not always of sadness or of gloom
are not always shed in privacy in the night-silent room
for sometimes they are shed in public, and out there,
out in this wide, wide world, this universe we all share
shed for the valiant soldiers who suffer for the fight
shed for the thousands for whom there is no light
shed as an ocean carries its tides that ebb and flow
shed as the rivers and streams upon eternal wandering go
but the saddest tears that anyone, everyone, can shed
are the tears for the ones from whom all hope has sped
tears for the children whose homes are by war torn apart
tears for the ones who hold no love within their hearts
So never tell me that I should not weep, I should not cry
instead, seek in your own hearts, the reason why

I watch with eyes long used
to seeing postures upright,
poised, or bowed
and brows confused
hands betraying age in speckled skin
cosmetics that hide the
insecurities within
I watch them
as they sit, stand, walk or pause
and see sometimes
what they would wish me not to see
the anger lodged within that
unleashes pink nailed claws
I hear from lips
the sharp tongues
brittle, hoarse
and watch and wonder at
these things I hear and see
and wonder what the watched ones
hear and see
in me?

Trust me, don't be afraid of being left on the shelf
For, if born of nothing but the needy love of self
love itself can swiftly become such a selfish thing
when loneliness and passion together take wing

For thus it is that Love is a complicated *******
for it often seeks out that uncomplicated yearning
and then turns it into a thing of so little substance
signifying nothing, and thoughtless, never learning

it assumes many forms, from starlings whirling swarms
to the sweet bluebirds that soft songs so sweetly sing
and white swans that seem the epitome of love so true
all these avian jesters can make a twitching fool of you

Take advice, do not a perch provide when this creature
seeks out a lonely heart in which to settle, roost and hide
for it will so swiftly spread out its darkly feathered wings
and fill your unsuspecting heart with all manner of things

Its fervid fetid feathers of passion will choke your soul
Its probing beak of jealousy will swiftly break your heart
this winged thing called love is a complicated *******
for, born of passions carrion, it will slowly tear you apart