I’m stealing through a twilit realm, the ancient pale of Whereis,
passing chambers of an Heiress
(though no need to feel embarrassed)
through a magic mystic mirror hanging curtainless.

A glimpse near naked alleyways (denuded by the moon) ex-
poses Ghosts in gauzy tunics
carving symbols, round and runic,
in distended dingy dungeons of uncertainness.

Down misty streets of cobblestone – ancestral avenues –
patchwork paths consume my shoes
(chasing foggy curlicues
twisting, twirling by in twos,
floating anywhere they choose),
leaving footprints that confuse
vagrant wispy retinues
of the threaded wooden sticks that stalk a Puppet wandering.

Condensed in drops of fantasy, distilled in evening dew,
shifting Shadows I pursue
(wearing faces I once knew,
slipping slowly from my view)
turn their backs to bid adieu
leaving stars to tempt me through
Awful Tower residues
mocking treasures time outgrew
in the birth of old from new
framing pageants in review
midst the visions of the painted past I can’t help pondering.

Contorted candelabra claw the skyline’s walled suspension
caught in twilight’s intervention
– still unlit (in stark dissension),
therefore seething with a tension
in the quiet apprehension
of the Watchman’s inattention
to the night-time’s bold pretension
to her power, not to mention,
to her hyperspace extension
(far beyond my comprehension
of the sundown’s bleak dimension) –  
on exhausted beaten boulevards of foolish fretfulness.

Oblivion depletes me, voiding haste and hurried hassles,
me, a simple abject vassal,
trailing moonlit floating castles,
– fickle feet, but fingers facile
grasping straws and pendant tassels –
as I stumble through the rubble of forgetfulness.

I think I must be dreaming as I seem to see these things,
neath a sky alive with wings
(hear the Nightingale, she sings),
midst the whispered murmurings
soughed by Phantoms clad as Kings
pacing palaces in rings,
while their hapless footfall clings
to the sagging sinking sands of midnight’s splintered splattered ruins.

Entangled in the swirling leaves that spin in dizzy flurries,
(while the wind beside me scurries
as an ermined hermit hurries)
lurk my sleepy woes and worries
(glowing faint’ but growing blurry)
which, when plundered by the demon dusk, I’d left behind me strewn.

The forgery of Multitudes between the Silhouettes
(and discarded cigarettes,
neath the haunted parapets)
mock my lonely echoed steps
         – mock my lonely echoed steps –
(struck like clicking castanets
         – struck like clicking castanets –)
as I lace unlabeled lanes, erasing silence’ sullen treason.

The mossy stones condole with me (within the oubliettes
draped in blood and tears and sweat
sometimes dry, more often wet
quite like drops of anisette
sipped in moments one forgets
self-reproach and raw regrets)
midst the midnight minuets
and the purling pirouettes
of the fugitive Grisettes
(flaunting charms and amulets)
who, in flitting shades of arching bridges, linger longer, teasin’.

Along the When I’m drifting, but a stardust castaway,
weaving, threading by cafés
and deserted cabarets,
just a gauzy appliqué
on the river’s rippled spray,
chasing Fools along the way
through the strands of yesterday,
neath the throbbing peal of sobbing bells in spectral cloisters, quaking.

In belfries, high and haughty, alabaster Knights perform,
riding stiff against a storm,
steeped in cloudlike chloroform,
while the raven skies deform
and my shrivelled shovelled form
(rapt, while bats in steeples swarm
close to candles waxing warm)
hangs in hallowed hallways, hiding, shoulders weary, weak and aching.

Around me hover grinning masks, veiled visages of Queens,
feigning fatal final scenes
of demented doomed Dauphines
(against the scarlet sky they lean,
dreary dripping guillotines),
traced in opalescent ballrooms only tattered time remembers.

The hidden hands of Harlequins (while floating free, unseen
disbursing secrets sibylline,
amongst the manes of Halloween),
tap (on tumbrel tambourines
behind abandoned shuttered screens)
a dirge (with tattooed tones pristine)
for me (a heap in ragged jeans
in these crazy cluttered scenes),
trapped interred in toppled stone chateaus that dismal dawn dismembers.

Rogue breezes pierce, benumbing me, my ears and toes a’ freezin’
(in the Cockcrow’s purple season
as when nightmares should be easin’
and the Zephyr winds appeasin’),
so I reach for  rhyme and reason,
which endeavours leave me wheezin’,
caught impaled upon the jagged edge of early morning’s breaking.

The chill evoking silver chimes of Nodomain start knelling
as the searing sun looms swelling,
and their monodies hang dwelling
in the cloud drifts’ care, revelling,
but the Sandman’s too compelling
and my weariness impelling
– since my eyelids risk rebelling,
when they’ll fall, there’s no foretelling
for the starry sky’s past telling –
as I fade beneath the flaming forge while embers tremble, waking.

The two elegant bulging tissues;
my thought  is on female issues;
Everyone loves it; nurture  it;
One touch on its ******
It becomes beautiful;
so adorable; so attractive;
No muscles; No hassles
All Nerves ending
at the breast;
The essence of life;
Milk of love
It is emptying from her;
The milk is in drops;
Drops down to the
Thirsts of babies in and around
The milk of life;  The milk of love
   A child is thirsting for milk......
Crying for milk
Milk is genius
Milk is white,
       Like an empty sky.......
When it comes to ****,
all eyes  lead to the ******,
which is the center
of  areola of sensation;
the aroma  of human
life and love..
I am fortunate to sip milk drops
from my mother’s *******. .........
*
By Williamsji Maveli

Email:williams

Beyond this little bit of space light has claimed,
i hear darkness howl it's commands,
but i ignore, pretend at least
i won't listen to it's songs, with the power of
evil, and it's nine charms
that some times takes the boys and girls
to it's musty corridors.No we don't,
though this failing light can't assure.

I walk with a spring in every step,
in a make believe fashion, absolutely without
any reason,in tatted clothes it's looks awkward,
but that happens to be the birth right of our tribe
in deep dark alleys and dense shanty towns.
some look at me and think it's defiance.Is it?
some answers are not with us.
those who have access never cared to share
Right to information, doesn't work that way.
if you ask, they look daggers,
"What does this street boy want?
why does he read books or  sing songs?
is poetry any good to him?"
Questions.questions...like arrows first
then their eyes get angry, like an addict
with withdrawal symptoms
angry wild  dogs haunts us all over the world
some questions, even if you ask life long
would never get answers.
what to them if you get mad.
"Come sit down here a bit ,you'll be OK"
a grandma or mother, native of a shanty town
whimper, running fingers through hair on my fuming head.

For each springing step,  i have to fight with myself.
before my eyes, the face of the man on creches
who struggle to take even a step forward, dances
and the immobile ones , victims with hands and legs in plaster,
or amputated
boys and girls in dingy children's wards
seeking treatment for a disease called poverty, lying on cold floors
as the beds overflow with patients, medicines non-existent.

I remember the sunken eyes that
look darkly in to bleak future and mumble inanities,
in dreams those eyes get armed and run after me with a cry
i feel my throat go dry,
i want but can't shake off the anguish that has caught
my mind like a mad dog, on a leg.
look at the face of those children, dropped off from school,
and took to bad roads to make a living
for a day or two they can foresee.
who has snatched their books?
the diseased and malnourished,
the poor and the suffering has a case,
but,you and i have little doubt,
no court would take their case,
it didn't happen all these years,in spite of all efforts.
yes, they can seek justice, but who will pay the price,
and will they stand the hassles?There is no quick justice.
poor are equal to ordinary mortals, no special privileges!

Those with,
bad money,
bad memory,
bad eyes
that can't see
tattered lives,
and good enough
not to see
disturbing sights,
swish past
gleefully
through
our high ways,
in their plush
limousines,
that i watch
with a lump
in my throat.
O

in the beauty of the bush
one's mind is at ease
in the rustle of the trees

the air takes one to a lovely space
where all one's hassles
are more rightfully placed

the waters of the creek
soothes one's bothered soul
as it contentedly babbles and rolls

the finches koels and corellas
renew one's heart
with the songs they impart

one feels utterly at peace
in the beauty of the bush

Bohemian runs to her castle
Full of flowers, sticks and stones
and tassels.

Blue-white springs on her right
And on her left-
the beautiful light of her future- her distant future.

Bohemian runs from her castle
The rooms are cold and the people
Build upon her hassles.

Will she know that-
those springs are on her right!
And on her left the beautiful, distant light of her future.

Lead on into the wild.
Won't you show me your deepest smile?
Fall away, fall away from the darkness.
It's okay, Bohemian.
Just smile.

Feathering away and spread your wings.

We have lost
the reason
for the season

The pain of
over spending
Beyond our means

The pain of
giving
more time then
We have

The pain of
not
Giving at all

The pain of
Not giving
What we
Are willing  
to spare

The pain of
Frustrated Complaining
about the crowds
parking spaces
the hassles of it all

The pain of
the reason for the season
is  lost
to commercialized  
It’s only about  
Getting Stuff
More stuff

You have never
experienced a
Carmen
Christmas
Until you have been
To my house
My family remembers
And their child
Remember
Christmas

Now
Getting older and sick
my pain is
more physical
I need
A total knee replacement
I pack on ice to numb the pain
So many pain pills shots

I have a list to do
As long as Santa’s
I’m pulling all nighters
To get it all done
Cleaning cooking
baking baskets of treats
I don’t complain
It’s not my style

Pride perhaps

I do it out of pure love
The family will be here Christmas
For a few days
Waiting on them
Feeding them
Caring for their every need
I want them to remember
the love of giving

Think what Jesus gave us
His life our salvation
What are we giving
him on his Birthday

My knee COPD
all my other ailments
Are nothing

I pray Lord
Let me give them
One more year
As I fight back the pain
With tears
no one must see

My “teenage” Grandson
asked me
What I wanted for
Christmas
YOU
I told him
I DO NOT NEED ANYTHING
Yet
He earned money
Walk to the store
To buy me
a gift
He knows
I will love

I am planting seeds
Of
Generosity Goodness Kindness
Most importantly
LOVE
Merry Christmas

I saw you in a very isolated place
Full of unmerciful grace
Formed as an unusual feeling
That turned out to be familiar meaning

A short bridge of hope
For a long road of lope
It happens all of a sudden
But it never been sullen

Simple greetings and small talks
To never ending chattering and big walks
Words that are always surrounded by fog
Now it was all clouds formed into a blog

We've been through a lot of struggles
Escaped a lot of hassles
And now we're already starting
One year and counting...

**-alien-