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Corn stalks and
wildflowers -

- fr
Awkward - as the infinite
Black of night against
A background of baby bonnet pink.
No sustaining verse issues from
An unreflecting pool
Stagnant from deprivation of
Refreshing waters of life.
Cold intellect attempting
To compose poetry alive with
Crisp sunrises, rolling streams,
The perfume of a bashful girl -
Cold intellect, anxious and sad,
Desperately trying to
Regain a solid footing on earth,
Make its stand in a world
Of daisies and mockingbirds
Before it's too late.

- fr
Because we are earth.
Because we are not here
And nature over there.
Because it is a dysfunctional mental habit
To conceive of ourselves as separate
From the flowing energy of the planet
- the air, water and nourishment -
That we transmute to our own energy.
Because we set aside a day to recall
How dangerously mistaken it is
To treat as a lowly inexhaustible slave
One that is both single-minded parent
   and sustaining comrade,
Worthy of love and respect.

- fr
I said to myself,
   "Someday soon you will
     be dead and gone.
     Your consciousness dissolved.

Myself replied,
   "What does this mean?
     I have no experience
     with which to relate."

"This is true," I acknowledged, "but
     you possess imagination
     and thus may conceive
     of opposites."

"Yes," Myself agreed, "but
     imagination can only construct
     with what has been received.
     To conceive of
     the void of all conception
     is beyond my parameters."

- fr
Simply having some fun with 'philosophic solitaire.'
My little deer
Is that you
peeking between the trees
peering at the stag
but your heart's
still not at ease
... time ago
a short time
a stray cupid's arrow
shot the night air
splitting your spirit in two
frightened you took off
from the foreboding
hiding in a lea
there was sun
and cloudless skies
but not really
as your insides
in a storm
in a hourglass
with sand pebbles fighting
to heal
for the best
now as you peer
between the trees
of salvation
do you hear
birds singing near a brook
... songs sung
so beautiful
in concerto
with the chipmunks, *****, crickets
then, as you take
that step forward
so lion hearted
between those
of redemption
my little deer
are there rays
of sunshine
peeking back

This poem I write with passion, mainly because the deer personifies all the women in my life that walked away.
the every day
things of life
can invariably impinge on
our time to write
were we not immersed
in household chores
or going to a place of employment
there'd be more hours
for jotting down a stylish verse
when our tight schedules allow
the opportunity
we have the quill
out ranging
over the unfilled vellum
those many ideas which collect
inside our inspired heads
due to so few minutes
being readily available
we've still managed
an explanatory rendition
on squeezing
a line or two in
We were there
Somehow exposed,
So I broke my back to hide
Behind a girl I must now call my friend
Due to the norms.
After words over words
That made no sense to me,
(Most of the days it no longer does)
We sat there pondering,
How each of us ended up there,
Most of us looking for our place.
I wondered how it felt
Like I owned that seat,
But I never do belong.
So she drew a sketch from her memory,
It was her home,
Yet it appeared , I don’t know how
But as simple as a doll house,
How fickle are our lines drawn
They can never justify our memories!
We laughed at her richness,
So she started drawing what we called minimal.
There was a pointed roof
So far beneath the sky,
One bent door
And a tiny little window with no glass,
Maybe we all do wish a world
With no bounds,
But look at us
Chaining ourselves,
Caged in a concrete home.
Over the house she drew these tiny hills,
The sky yet to fill in,
And then the sun,
(I decided it was the time of sunrise),
And across that eye with long eyelashes,
Like the ones they all talk of,
She drew this crooked but fast little black likes,
Curved with a dash beneath,
Three in number
And staring at that I realized
I have never been this dead before.
Like an incandescent brass gong
The afternoon sun
Burns in the sky

Like a boiling pan
The asphalt streets send out steam
Scaring pedestrians to travel on foot

The rushing wheels
Raise spouts of dust behind
Turning starched white into muddy tint

The undergrowth rustles below feet
A match stick can ignite a wild fire
That might grow into a conflagration

Glass windows are coated with layers of dust
Sweat trickles down the grimy faces
Of those who toil in the open

Sunbeams pelt down like rain!
Under which parasol can we seek shade,
In this sweltering desert of heat?
With the steep rise in temperature, life has become miserable in many parts of India !
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