"abodes" poems
I look up from my book
to find beams of warm sunlight
touching my face,
the chugging of the train
accompanied by its whistling,
become my aural companions
for the journey,
as I look at scenes that
unfold before my eyes :
I pass by hawkers
trying to sell their wares,
their calls mingled with
joyous voices,
of children
excited about their
first train journey,
of families
on their way,
perhaps, to attend a wedding,
or to celebrate the birth
of a much awaited child.
I see :
village belles toiling away
on fields;
shabby looking buildings
speaking of years of neglect;
temples ringing with the sounds of
bhajans being sung with religious fervour,
bells being tolled, pleading
the gods to look down
from their divine abodes;
roadside stalls filling the air
with aromas of food,
promising hearty meals.
They are all ephemeral sights, and yet,
they have become a part of me -
the smells, the sights -
they shall bring back memories
that will become my companions
in solitude.
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 4:17 AM UTC
Gorgeous blue skies
Disneyland magic
World of Color
Pacific cruisin'
Beverly Hills bravado
Venice Beach eccentrics
Celebrities' celestial abodes
California Screamin'
Yet it's for you I'm dreamin'
Jun 11, 2013
Jun 11, 2013 at 9:03 PM UTC
(Inspired by article below)
I.
Continuity
your filibuster egg of sand
dazzled curiosity
with creaky shell of hints
heaped upon the tedium
of knowledge's unfurl undeterred
by encyclopedic impatience
Assurances of rip(Van Winkl)ed
economics shooed paper strings of
revelation like anarchy-powered
taxes summoning a foreword
to anachronistic campaigns
of environmental friendliness
II.
Meanwhile years
have been filed down to flashes of
chronology for continuity's organic rebus
However long it took
the economic karma to fall into the
abodes of hedonistic pharaohs
it was instant
Skin that ruled behind the constitution
of allergic breath
bailed on the bones against their most
sublime intentions
Limbo-treading landlords
huddled in their mummified freeze
after breadline bashers scolded them
with the spoils of a new brand
of pyramid scheming
Robbers of the coffin palaces
stole the intimations of identity
theft from today
Immortality and freedom
were compelled to share a meaning
like estranged siblings
or bound dynasties
I(a).
Abydos
how you coyly toyed with us
with a diversion bordering on monolithic
04 23 14
Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
Supernal abodes ours where we be as
soul-sheaths more transparent than we aspire
*in abodes we of
self-modification more transparent than we petaled hope*
of here, realms where bloom delights, beacons of
petaled hope, amid the rhythms of ice-pins
*amid Supernal beacons of delights
space, sensation soul-sheaths expansion of ice-pins*
in expansion space, sensation light and
self-modification all perception
*be as bloom ours where all perception here, realms where
aspire light and the rhythms*
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 2:14 PM UTC
O Lord of the hosts!
His eyes shine in radiance
in whose heart is your name
whence the origin and where the end
the earth, sky and stars
pay homage to him
and fear fears him
whom your shadow protects
O Lord of the hosts!
He who earns the blessing of your love
wealth finds him in whatever he does
and a shoreless boat is he who
has not found you whose
benevolent eyes keep watch over all
shattering the storms of sins,
whose glory never ebbs,
he becomes a master of his own destiny
even forgetting the world, who has
found your grace, come riding the mouse,
O Lord of the hosts!
Anointed of the dust of your foot
on his forehead, who lives mortal here,
the immortal nectars cannot tempt him
he can drink venom smiling
just by the shadow of your grace
the wheel of the chariot of time moves
and by a spark of your ire
abodes of demons burn
the minions of enemies stand defeated,
a particle is a mountain,
boon become into this world, comes your name,
O Lord of the hosts!
Glory, glory to the dear one adorned of peacocks!
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 11:54 AM UTC
O Lord of the hosts!
Shine in radiance, his eyes -
in whose heart is your name;
Who fathoms your ends?
The earth, sky and stars
pay homage to him
and fear fears him,
whom your shadow protects:
O Lord of the hosts!
Wealth finds him in whatever he does
who earns the blessing of your love,
and a shoreless boat is he who
has not found you whose
benevolent eyes keep watch over all
shattering the storms of sins,
whose glory never ebbs;
Becomes a master of destiny,
even forgetting the world, who has
found your grace,
come riding the mouse -
O Lord of the hosts!
Anointed of the dust of your foot
on his forehead, who lives mortal here,
immortal nectars cannot tempt him -
he can drink venom smiling;
Just by the shadow of your grace
the wheel of the chariot of time moves
and by a spark of your ire
abodes of demons burn;
The minions of enemies stand defeated,
miraculous, boon become into this world,
comes your name:
O Lord of the hosts!
Glory, glory to the dear one adorned of peacock-feathers!
Sep 15, 2018
Sep 15, 2018 at 1:26 PM UTC
I shaved away the edges until there was nothing left, but a dream of what could have been, and so with frustration i accepted the jagged.
A common law of common flaws, as my face morphs into mask.
I still wonder, when it all will collide, building up inside ...
So much.
Too much.
Electrified in the the allure of my ruthless retorts, as i struggle in futile resistance to the inevitable.
The feeling is incredible, when you let all just go.
As it gently flows from the empathy into ecstasy, learning to love thy enemy, even as they are metaphorically stabbing me in the back.
Euphorically to react to the sensations in my lap when shes next to me.
Hexing me in a shellacking smack to my mannerisms
Her summer dress to address my cynicism, as it flows back from whence it came.
Detained in her image.
Restrained, in questioned worth.
Worth a thousand words.
Words never heard but seen in synesthesia.
Synesthesia saving my amnesia from forgotten verbs that be-heave us, in forgetful stumbling of the loving mumblings before the kiss.
The kiss dismissing the winded blue lips from the fumbled wits of love.
Love drown the fires ablaze as it spirals away.
Away from the journey.
Journey of the uninterrupted.
Uninterrupted in the hunting of my comforts.
Comfort in the squiggled lines.
Lines that pack a little comfort.
Comfort in the blinds, as i sacrifice my obedience for a little bit of expedience on the smile that awaits, this toothless face.
Bludgeoned stupid, as i pace at half mass, blinded in the tall grass of empty lands amassed in colors unseen with tunneled eyes that refuse to defy gravity.
Gravity in your roads chosen.
Chosen in the glow of abodes ablaze.
Amazed in starlit eyes.
Eyes to dream.
Dream of better ways.
Ways to clean the bad away.
Away with my wayward words.
Words observed in zero.
Zeros the point in which i met her, blinded in the blur, as im pulled to her.
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 6:08 PM UTC
Spaces within a space
Small abodes demarcated
With blank spaces
Unusual emptiness
Desertification of
Fertile spaces
Once vibrant with life
Now abandoned
Strife and turmoil
Creates vacant spaces
Where love should dwell
Mistaken emptiness
Where bonds are strengthened
We widen the gap
Creating new empty spaces
Leaving it open and vulnerable
Apr 23, 2015
Apr 23, 2015 at 11:50 PM UTC
Get some space from this place, too many ways to say the king is vain,
But I make it plain, bleeding grace from my veins to displace the rain
Of fire brought by the squire's higher order who order the pain,
God **** what a shame, this whole sham is a game, how lame can you get?
Before your insane brain lets go the chain of the meek, you grow weak
With the weeks like the way a dam leaks, think honestly when you speak,
And the sleek throne will honor your reigns' peak, don't freak just streak the roads
With humble abodes for your crumbling kin, stumbling within their
Fears as you raise cheers to a dynasty all your own, but let it
Be known Kings die nasty like Caesar and lastly we can either
Rule our own minds or drool away time by letting life fall in line...
Aug 17, 2014
Aug 17, 2014 at 7:00 PM UTC
While an intrinsic ardor prompts to write,
The muses promise to assist my pen;
’Twas not long since I left my native shore
The land of errors, and Egyptain gloom:
Father of mercy, ’twas thy gracious hand
Brought me in safety from those dark abodes.
Students, to you ’tis giv’n to scan the heights
Above, to traverse the ethereal space,
And mark the systems of revolving worlds.
Still more, ye sons of science ye receive
The blissful news by messengers from heav’n,
How Jesus’ blood for your redemption flows.
See him with hands out-stretcht upon the cross;
Immense compassion in his ***** glows;
He hears revilers, nor resents their scorn:
What matchless mercy in the Son of God!
When the whole human race by sin had fall’n,
He deign’d to die that they might rise again,
And share with him in the sublimest skies,
Life without death, and glory without end.
Improve your privileges while they stay,
Ye pupils, and each hour redeem, that bears
Or good or bad report of you to heav’n.
Let sin, that baneful evil to the soul,
By you be shun’d, nor once remit your guard;
Suppress the deadly serpent in its egg.
Ye blooming plants of human race divine,
An Ethiop tells you ’tis your greatest foe;
Its transient sweetness turns to endless pain,
And in immense perdition sinks the soul.
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Maybe your mothers and fathers do not know right from wrong
Maybe those that birth you cannot tell real from unreal
The apples do not fall far from the trees that we know all along
So no surprise when off-springs and all fall into the reel
Unable to decipher the lost and damaged from their midst adorn
My mother washed me in truth, honesty, sincerity and real love
That's the only path that graces the soul and makes humanity
So all my life I know what's real, true, honest from all else above
You walk your path and serve your gods in all their profanity
Your festered minds and putrid brains is not like mine thereof
In superficial abodes, your falseness lies fakery has confused you
No truth or honesty exists all around only deceits and raw fear
You rot from the inside and feed from poison not breastmilk too
from start you're ****** your brains from chemicals they rear
Spooks with semblance no substance, serving satan them born fools
I know what's real what's true what's honest and sincere or not
That is me from real bosoms raised in edifying values not falsity
Come in thousands you stink from a mile off satan demons squat
Sincerity truthfulness if erred makes amends not sit discordantly
Real Humanity embraces love and peace not mortal duels that's fact
From negativity you drink in darkness lies your bread and joy
miseries and fears you seek to share cause your souls lies in pain
In cancerous fears you scheme and plot your ****** evils ploys
Cause it destroys you to see goodness whilst your souls' in chain
Weak corrupted dark and damaged subjugated to lucifers noise
Gnarled old wrinkled before your years you envy my young looks
Borne of inner joy and unafraid pious calm pathetics spit zombie
Too sick to know a clear conscience never pines or fears like crooks
Pure and noble emotions caters no dirt or negativities like loonies
Dignity and integrity offers granite to malevolent duds and hooks
Oct 31, 2018
Oct 31, 2018 at 10:16 AM UTC
One more before I go.
Into the wilderness of parts and dreams. A happy send off in the cool morning.
I will be back in a new form perhaps, a more rounded crown of a tree, after years of pruning.
A "wild and precious life" with untold horrors, spoken dreams, and wandering caravans of thought.
In yellow abodes loving kindness which is yours. Maybe it will seep in like a root gives to it's leaves. Traveling through twisted currents. It's fragile rose petals. Short lived. But remembered.
Sep 12, 2023
Sep 12, 2023 at 11:49 AM UTC
From dark abodes to fair etherial light
Th’ enraptur’d innocent has wing’d her flight;
On the kind ***** of eternal love
She finds unknown beatitude above.
This known, ye parents, nor her loss deplore,
She feels the iron hand of pain no more;
The dispensations of unerring grace,
Should turn your sorrows into grateful praise;
Let then no tears for her henceforward flow,
No more distress’d in our dark vale below,
Her morning sun, which rose divinely bright,
Was quickly mantled with the gloom of night;
But hear in heav’n’s blest bow’rs your Nancy fair,
And learn to imitate her language there.
“Thou, Lord, whom I behold with glory crown’d,
“By what sweet name, and in what tuneful sound
“Wilt thou be prais’d? Seraphic pow’rs are faint
“Infinite love and majesty to paint.
“To thee let all their graceful voices raise,
“And saints and angels join their songs of praise.”
Perfect in bliss she from her heav’nly home
Looks down, and smiling beckons you to come;
Why then, fond parents, why these fruitless groans?
Restrain your tears, and cease your plaintive moans.
Freed from a world of sin, and snares, and pain,
Why would you wish your daughter back again?
No—bow resign’d. Let hope your grief control,
And check the rising tumult of the soul.
Calm in the prosperous, and adverse day,
Adore the God who gives and takes away;
Eye him in all, his holy name revere,
Upright your actions, and your hearts sincere,
Till having sail’d through life’s tempestuous sea,
And from its rocks, and boist’rous billows free,
Yourselves, safe landed on the blissful shore,
Shall join your happy babe to part no more.
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Here hails a huge, long and dragonish snake,
With myriads of dangerous heads on its thorax,
Roaming up and down in a nefarious duty
All over the African streets and hamlets,
Villages and terrains, the abodes of poor folks,
Swallowing daughters and sons of this land,
Swallowing a handful of them on each bite,
They are in a forlorn despair like never before,
Defenselessly succumbing to the dragon once in the grip,
Young and old, prebubescent and all others are cancers’ fodder,
Africa is truly diminishing to the abysmal jaws of cancer,
Forget of initial vices of *** Ebola and leprosy,
Forget of the contemporary terrorism and ethnic warlordism,
Cancer is ruthlessly swallowing poor folks of Africa
Into its inferno of early deaths, rendering many parentless,
A knot for the living to put aside pride and seek genuine help,
For the myriad heads of dragonish cancer violently **** the prey,
I have seen sons and daughters of poor Africa in cancerous agony,
Often with a blocked food pipe when in the grip of throat cancer,
Non-stop vaginal bleeding at mercilessness of cervical cancer,
In the torture of brute pulling weight in grip of scrotal cancer,
On the top of maximum pain in the grip of breast cancer
Humorously desperate before menacing eyes of death,
When misfortunately in the grip of heart cancer,
Deathly starvation condemns many poor folks to grave,
Always when in the unlucky tentacle of intestinal cancer,
In this desperate land of Africa where basic hospital
Stands a luxury, affordable by the rich in the political class,
As the poor without choice die and die and die,
O who will take me out of Africa, this nonchalant Africa?
Before the dragon of cancer condemns me down to its
Inferno of pains and miserably violent death!
I fear death due to punctured lungs without solace,
I fear death due to stunted blood cells without succor
I fear death due to poisoned blood without palliative
When the cancerous heads of ; lung cancer, blood cancer,
And Liver cancer will besiege this land of Africa to hold me a captive.
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 5:42 AM UTC
Young Kalachnokov made an odd discovery,
Odd because no beneficiary it had ever since.
He complained over
the dust of amount it brought
into his purse
as a bridegroom who would be served
whine in pint by the in-laws
at wedding party.
The sound achievement
brought him an ocean of reflections
when he saw how tense-eyed
became lads holding the AK-47,
When he saw that they crawled like snakes
(which move to bite),
Forcing their fellows’ lives away,
Forcing their fellows’ to become foes,
Forcing their fellows to flee abodes and gardens around,
The gardens he saw without care,
And bitterly old Kalachnokov regretted
he hadn’t made a lawnmower.
Note :
1. Mikhail Kalachnokov was twenty years old when he made the fire weapon.
2. AK47 : A : Automatic ; K : Kalachnokov ; 47 : The year 1947 the automatic weapon was made by the man who gave it his name « Kalachnokov »
Dec 24, 2013
Dec 24, 2013 at 10:26 AM UTC
The lunatic caressed the words of the lips
The saint crept the innocent’s soul
The first spurt his ink in the pulp
The second groped for the flesh’s call
The rhymester’s itch by pen, relief!
The copulator’s, prey’s grief!
The poet died sane with words
The ****** in fire abodes!
Jan 26, 2012
Jan 26, 2012 at 1:35 AM UTC
Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs
No school of long experience, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares,
To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt
Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades
Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches is alive
And musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while below
The squirrel, with raised paws and form *****
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade
Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam
That waked them into life. Even the green trees
Partake the deep contentment; as they bend
To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the winged plunderer
That ***** its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,
And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees
That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,
With all their earth upon them, twisting high,
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet
Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee,
Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass
Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
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The sands of El Dorado
Lash my tongue under tarp;
Wishes born something golden,
Fried eggs under beds
And homes, abodes in progress,
One peso at a time –
A tale and tear with every grain,
An allowance and granted only
Broken window.
The ragged lump of pillow
Where I now taste time,
Reeks of mescal with my
One white elbow
Tapping one bronze elbow;
Distant, under woven wanderings
And tattered dreams of parents
Wishing well – come subtle guilt,
Whilst the roofs of a prior Tibet
Tap atop my tether.
And while I ponder what strums –
Atriums, tempest and tubular,
I also reckon in what it means to be
Held and held alike
So that I can protect
And protect alike;
She’s waiting for me in “before”
And in Mexico, in the “now,”
So much sooner the past.
So to sooner, broken the future.
And so mothers will cry in kitchens,
Others laugh come the next fool
And yet others, abandon others
So that soon, recklessly soon, my feet
Make a wonderful twist toward away;
But at least I’d had this sunset –
Something to ride off into like the
Liquid dreams off a furrowed brow
And at least we’d had “we” on more time.
Just one more time.
Jul 13, 2016
Jul 13, 2016 at 11:46 PM UTC
“Little Lover” by AC/DC blasts over crackling speakers.
Cracks in the road assist my flat tire
in softly, yet steadily
pulling me off course to the left.
Rocks roll down dirt banks into clean spring rivers,
motorhomes full of smiling faces go the opposite direction
in no rush
until they slingshot past as we pass.
I nod at humble well-kept country abodes as my prototypical
small-town family dream fades with the sun behind the Kootaney mountains - I bid Farewell.
I bid farewell,
to my home & motorhomes
to similes & metaphors
to rocks that roll
and to the little love
I’ve shared with only
who I want when I want to.
“She shook me all night long” begins to play as my nighttime drive finishes.
One day baby, my life will play out intense as any AC/DC ****** innuendo…
but it’s a long way to the top if you wanna rock n’ roll.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 12:33 AM UTC
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Pare 1 Of 3)
For the barefoot girl, the faithful
album was an afternoon in the
sports bar where there had been
a guitar player and some ginger ale.
Now the trumpet was singing a wide
screen view of the big game.
Eliminating distractions, the crew
was focused on the game, ignoring
the girl as she wandered, in bare feet,
between the tables. No pretense
suggested that the medium was not
appropriate for those who climbed
railroad ties and those who drank beer
in moderation after negotiations about
the green sheaves and the upstairs room.
In this castle, time was suspended.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 2 Of 3)
Ashes were good for the roots of the plant
in the window where the response was
directed to the coolness, or the hot weather.
In sports, the weather seemed to be extreme.
It was always freezing cold the opposite;
coaches meant to be cautious watching for
heat stroke among the players. The club was
not louder than the dim barn where animals
were removed from the immediacy of the
last few weeks of the season. Some of the
birds could not fly; there were mice that
could climb to humble abodes in the rafters,
and the cats gathered apart from the dogs.
The heavy lifters had reassuring
incantations derived by the artificial
structures of the radiology through iconic
projection. Antenna reception hovered to
mark the insects with aesthetic devices,
a discovery by evolution.
The Setting Was A Colored Stone (Part 3 Of 3)
Screams came from the permutation and
signing a transcript of the spiritual drawing
which had been seen wandering among all
the other creatures living and working in
the flying building. The gathering showed
grinning teeth and disappeared. Found at
the bottom of the mineshaft, was the fictional
ring of speculations and associations
confronting the mischief of the few by the
motionless badges of authority. Life depended
on the weathered red boards where the climate
ranged like it was galloping across the public
space, proved free by the friendliness of
kindly associates and the universe of powers,
the authority of birds that did not fly and barns
that had flown away.
Nov 8, 2013
Nov 8, 2013 at 8:04 PM UTC
Underneath the face of a sad clown lies a little wicked small town
Just a speck on the map
You may just be passing through but soon the fever will catch up to you
Feel the ripple effect
Here you won't make a best friend, but a sister you never had
She'll guide you through the flowers and offer lots of laughs
But even at her most serene there's a sinister current underneath
A flexing of power
And soon you'll start looking towards the ground, where you'll start tripping too much to be coincidence
An as you look up the danger stops
She'll look right through you as if you were air and she'll say, 'Take my hand'
Soon she'll invite you to parties of mutual bodies, who happen to favor clumsy fools like you
But they'll treat you like a guest of honor, when really their accolades are insults with armor
They've nothing better to do but make up a coded language and test it on you
How did I get here?
How can I disappear?
But as you start to evaporate she'll throw you another inquiry
She's reading off your flaws with smiling jaws
Taunting you with mistruths
You look away hurt, and she seizes the moment to write the jab on a napkin
Something to share with the cronies for later
Ha-Ha, how cleverly subtle you are!
Friendship is makeshift here, my dear
The hippies don't play instruments anymore
The company she keeps would dispose of her in a second
But she's not worried, she has you as her bullet shield
The body-snatchers with mommy issues save face quite gracefully here
They all say they'd leave, but they burn a free ticket
A mafia with no honor
You'll have seen more life in comas than this town
Little coffins with hearsay mouths where hearts should be
Small town breeds fair-weather ghosts and cold abodes
But it sure is a great place to be if you're training on how to play dead
Nov 19, 2011
Nov 19, 2011 at 8:25 PM UTC
I got the whole world in my hands,
A woman existing in a diverse land
I thrive in a tribe a group or a clan
I crave and daydream to live in a nomad van
So much beauty to see in all shapes and sizes
So many stories to hear from all the different lives'
The clear pristine river where the salmon dance makes me quiver in glee
The bears that eat honey and take naps under a tree
Cozy in their giant fur coats so content and free
From the California coast through the seven seas
What a variety of preference and what one believes
The red Sea full of legend and myth
The Indian ocean full of aquatic masterpieces in warm bliss
The iced playground at the bottom of the globe
Where creatures and humans dwell in insulated snowy abodes
What an experience it would be
To eat a banana in the rainforest with a monkey
The humid beauty where fruits grow so pure and abundantly
Giant insects that would send shivers down your spine
Such exotic berries to make a unique wine
What it would be to groove in a congo with the native African man
Where women are so dear and true to their fam
there is endless majesty in this little globe
How I do so wish to see it all before I grow too old
To sit in a rocking chair a mind ever so expanded
So Content and humble never demanded
The need or desire to gather pointless things
But memories everlasting for eons to come
Don't forget to Stop and smell the roses, there is no need to run
I vow to always grow and expand ...
I am that I am mother Earth's number one fan
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 9:53 AM UTC
I went on a mission searching Him.
Priests "he abodes house of worship";
Others "you 'll find him in idols";
Scientists "in atoms as energy";
Atheist "let it be.Your pursuit is futile".
Did it suffice me?It only deluded me.
One day, I stood before a mirror,
The secret was answered.
We are clothed with Power ,
fed with beliefs,moved by love.
The cord of Realization when struck,
the abstruse life begins to unveil
Abating the afflictions of the soul.
This cord & the universe resonate,
To give 13th cord of octave - "ecstasy".
Now this phrase is justified;
"The Budda in me spreads to the Budda in you to create peace & hapiness." _Yes he's in me_*
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 2:53 PM UTC
By night, these figures mute, in the whispers
come alive, guardian deities to ancient shrines:
tonight, though, after aeons by the gates, alert,
they begin to wonder, who do they guard?
Gods no longer visit these their abodes on earth.
Tall statues, of somber stone, much garlanded,
dusty, layered in withering flowers of neglect;
Out of season now, but the shadows at noon
are wet in tears, this longest day of deep sorrow
who did they fight for, to be remembered for?
Long has she suffered, matron, deity, enthroned
in the shrine, but trodden of the earth, cuffed
at her home, weighed down of custom, wearing
tradition on her bangle and ankle and bearing
honour in her veil, invisible shadow of the race.
Like the mythical stream of the distant lore,
has this ancient river, at last found her desert?
To that man holding the book in his hand,
thundering to the empty skies, I ask, what law
do you uphold when the jungle invades the land
Aug 23, 2013
Aug 23, 2013 at 2:42 PM UTC
Stay put Owner occupiers are now envied
corners of smudged wealth,
suburbian renters isotope
brandish new England
more the continental model.
In derelict public houses
inside weightless Box Rooms
every blade of concrete counts.
I shall play in once Lavender fields
and usher questions.
How many times
do we render our knowledge?
ghost town forms are in submission,
again recession chimes
more than a lack of opportunities,
but who are these newcomers arriving en masse
to once bespoke areas
with money earned
from former unfashionable abodes ?
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 6:35 PM UTC