Deadbeat
Smelly feet
Walking across its own callouses
Creator of worlds
Perfect inscriber of nameless wonders beyond mere
Conception and discrimination
That permeates the minds of men
Misguided across the arc of ages
Leading only to cycles of
Hollow pain repeating itself
Lacking substance but appearing
Like unmovable boulders perched
Atop greener mountains
That whisper using their voice,
The wind
Carrying its message in its form
Disappearing but never gone
The homeless,
Not content to trap two sided
Ideas of being in overflowing
Homes filled with the true
Forms of out sourcing
The spirit, torn for
Perfect packages to be sent
To faceless names to further
The collection of vessels
Unused.
The wanderer,
Unhappy with goals
Moving towards the never ending
Journey of perfection
That ends nowhere but travels
Everywhere leaving no quarter
Uninvaded and sadly ringing
In transcendental ears
The lonely,
Unwilling to spread their
Personal pain
From personal failures
To any one but themselves
Using the compressed aggregate
Sickness in scientific lobes, only
Representations, to create faucets through which representations
Of the unrepresentative
Eek out an existence
Among glaring, modern edgy
Movements in endless circles
That sear images into retinas
Working their way to ******
Thoughts, deflowering the only
Worthwhile virginity in the sad reflections of experience
Called man.
The ******,
Never fulfilled from false conceptions
Or the self materializing aspect as
The passage of time
Looking to capture the eternal moment and ****** of the Now
Lasting forever but done long
Ago
Chasing the end of self
And forgetting the body for
Higher realms untouched by lazy
Thoughts and repetitive notions
Creating the mundane
The un-mundane is furthur up than most of us can see
Even if touching it is
The experience
Not different from the life you will
Live for a million regressions
The contemporaries
Never travel the
Path of the Mountain
First camels, then lions
Finally to turn into godly offspring of
Flowering being at the peak
Standing above ubiquitous faces
But contact on level planes
The mountain of self
To create a new identity divorced from the diseased blockage
Flowing through humanity's veins
Only to tumble down
Into the pulsating
Heart filling, disintegrating
All in one undiscriminating
Destruction unborn from the
Young universe only
To lose the conception
And absorb the absorber
Forgetting that once,
A young man carried all the
Pain he had handed to himself
In shiny packages
Pretending that the others
Ever even existed.

how many generations can
lay with you in your bed?

Matriarch Mama,
honorific due you,
title earned, not learned,
and now a teaching PhDs  of
Matriachal Science

let us have tea,
a tea party in you garden,
and the granddaughters
dressed in their church finest,
running noisy but that's ok,
mass is over, and the party
is now a backyard affair

me, a recorder,
standing in the corner,
invisible observing,
leaning on that old banyan tree,
smile playing on
my eyes,
counting
cousins daughters sisters,
and best of the best,
grand babies wilding in their Sunday finery,
even seeing
invisible fathers standing beside me,
but espy only one

Matriarch Mama,
sallying forth,
gunslinger of poetry,
nobody messes with Sally,
she is the brood defender,
poetess not
of the day

she is a
generational inscriber,
an author of a
gene pool of life's best,
her existence,
from heaven, sent a manna,
to feed-across-time
just one family,
an ordinary,
if such there was,

**Matriarch Mama

Love, a four-letter whisper, seems weightless on the tongue,
Yet, it bears the heaviest of destinies, a doom I must say,
That all hearts are fated to carry from their very first breath.
Could it be more than a mere doom?
There exists not a solitary soul on this planet who hasn’t woven tales
Of being ruined by the fragile threads of their vulnerable heart.
Then how come we fight to rekindle our spirits within the warmth of love at the close of each day,
When the chilling grip of hatred could so effortlessly take root in the depths of our very souls?
How can love wield such omnipotent power that, even when it tears us apart,
It still remains the sole inscriber of the script of joy and mirth upon the pages of our tragic lives?
For some souls, placing others ahead of them is their sole path to survival,
Isn't it wondrous to contemplate that they are the stars in our night sky,
Guiding us to trust, to love, and to open our hearts anew,
Even after the world has savagely exploited our innocence?
Love may inflict pain, a feeling of betrayal, and the searing fires of heartache.
But it’s a privilege to be the epitome of strength, to navigate tempestuous waters
And reach the shores of life again, without succumbing to the depths of drowning despair.
'Tis the most exquisite art, to bear this shard of resilience within our fragile yet whole hearts
Perhaps, it is a fateful burden to bear boundless love in a world fraught with turmoil,
Yet it remains a noble honour to choose humanity
Amidst the chaos and madness of this earthly realm.