I was sitting in the middle of crooked roads
and singing to the passersby about us
and our love
a lie

the bridges were slowly thinning in to
nothing
but old DVDs we used to watch when our minds were marinated with
empty vow books
and
your memory was seeping away with every note
dissected
in to atom-sized pieces of photo paper that was
impossible
to mend

I saw the sand particles of hourglasses run out
and almost forgot you
but then
whispers of your voice reverberated
swinging recorded words like tongue twisters
I covered my ears before your wavelengths could clash with
mine
and we would be
whole
once again

We are out of time.

These are some beautiful things:
A baby's first smile,
A bird in the wild,
A bride on the aisle,
A love that's worthwhile,

Warm wind in the trees,
The salt in the seas,
The buzz of spring bees,
Winter's first freeze,

A loved one's laugh,
A child's handmade craft,
An actor's autograph,
A newborn calf,

The sunrise in the sky,
And the sunset alike,
And kind passersby,
The stars in the night,

The wind in one's hair,
Sweet spring on the air,
A mother's care,
A child's prayer

The color of skin,
True feelings within,
The sound of violins,
And feeling sheepskin,

A book in my hands,
My feet in the sand,
Stories of another land,
And the promised land,

The leaves in the fall,
Mountains like walls,
Sounds of a waterfall,
The smell of rainfall,

Peace after war,
And petrichor,
And sand on the shore,
And a winning score,

Peace at night,
And perfect light,
And a first sight,
And a flying kite,

A smile so dear,
A kiss so clear,
A loved one near,
And a new come year,

And hope that everything will be okay

These are the beautiful things

I know a lady who waits
Down on Wall Street,
Snaps her fingers
At brokers
And licks her lips for Madoff.

She adorns her body
With black lace and feathers,
An elaborate facade to lead her men astray.
She whips her hair and
Cackles at passersby,
Opening her rouged mouth wide,
Singing verses without pitch or rhyme.

She yearns for the NASDAQ
To touch her,
Waits ardently for grease ***** to
Work their magic.
She gives willingly,
Unabashedly talks ***** to men in
Tom Ford.

This lady I know asks
For trouble. She is
The ***** of Wall Street,
A slave to modernity,
Snapping her fingers at Cadillacs
And bending over for Madoff.

As twilight descends on the city
Bright lights adorn the cityscape
As if the stars have come to decorate
The bustling party, where everyone is invited
Streets, alleys, pathways, boulevard- sparkling
With electrifying wattage, reminiscent of the celebrations
People returning home after a hard day’s work
With a slouch, after the backbreaking toil
The city lights up to entertain the weary passersby
Gives some solace to the mind, before another day beckons
The grim reality of the fast-paced city life is forgotten
As it’s time to celebrate another evening
Despite all the hardships and bickering among each other
There is always the dazzle of city lights to bathe with life
Rejuvenate us and entertain us; helping to cope with reality
The city crowd is amazing, where there is always a crowd
Despite being surrounded by people, yet we are alone
People flashing a forced smile to greet each other
Food stalls are a great leveler, where global cuisines are served
Bringing the flavors across the world, to the local taste buds
Everyone is in the limelight, under the city lights
Even the dark alleys and treacherous places align seamlessly
Yet, the city sees so many segregation and prejudices
The city lights don’t seem to illuminate all minds alike
All said and done, let’s be a part of the city’s party
As we are all invited, and revel till the city lights burn bright


© Amitav (Radiance)

The Evil Spider sits and spins
His web of golden strings so thin
That the slightest tug tells him
Who wants to buy and sell him.
He also knows it is them instead
That he buys and sells, dead
Or alive, they are his fuel.
It is between him and them, a duel
And all they have to do is touch,
Be slow, not be looking and he
Senses he has an opportunity.
He wraps them in his weaving;
They have no chance of leaving
Without him ******* their souls.
And that is his only real goal.

His web is wide and strong
So passersby going along
Don’t know they are in his reach.
And before anyone can teach
A fatal lesson is quickly learned;
All their bridges to safety burned
And they are a number, a dot,
Yet another victim he has got
To total up to a win for him
That makes the future dim
For those who don’t know
How far he is willing to go
With his golden lines of death.
It only takes a breath.

The store mannequin
Was rejected,
Her stats didn't comply
For a window show
To show its wares
To a town of passersby.

Her Do wasn't quite couture,
Her ******* were just such,
The arms that loped
Across her chest
Looked a little butch.
Her belly with its ripples,
Was all a bit too much;
Her ***** profile it was thought
Was maybe just a touch...
Her hips which had male appeal,
Were thought a tad too light.
Her legs rose up like lamp posts,
Her feet a a smidgeon tight.
Hanging, covering all her faults,
A dress not draping right.

The window dresser
Stamped UNSUITABLE
Across her harlequin face,
And packed her with
RETURN TO SENDER
In the original crate.

The man who lives in a mailbox
Sings his song alone
The rent he says is reasonable
And he likes the tone.

He sings:
I possess but what I have
That time does not remove.
All the castles all the kings
Are never here alone.
Brave parades and cheerful tunes
Do not the truth disprove.
We are each a single soul
And never here alone.
Never here alone.

His song is sung to passersby
Always much surprised
To pass a mailbox, hear a song
Coming from inside.

He sings:
I possess but what I have
That time does not remove.
All the castles all the kings
Are never here alone.
Brave parades and cheerful tunes
Do not the truth disprove.
We are each a single soul
And never here alone.
Never here alone.

Now, some protest, they say he’s mad
They tell him he is wrong
And some ignore his choice of home
And listen to his song.

He sings:
I possess but what I have
That time does not remove.
All the castles all the kings
Are never here alone.
Brave parades and cheerful tunes
Do not the truth disprove.
We are each a single soul
And never here alone.
Never here alone.

I feel the cold bites, mittened children yell
they’re sewing sky flowers as they run with yellow or red kites
ocean makes that great space with tides that linger over the rocks
we fashion nothing like the clouds and feel small

As storms build up I walk a coastal trail
where ashes of an old beach fire left roasted pinecones littered
an Osprey flies up above the shore’s edge  
and as I read your book, I feel the restless melody in your poems

Tides flap and slop against sand the color of worn concrete
ocean’s spoiled lives permeate everything, my skin tastes sea salt gargle
gulls and passersby all watch the waves moving towards us

I’m lingering here for too long and return to my car
clicking heels behind me in the parking lot
the castanets of other lives with their importance
arouse such unpleasant thoughts, I walk back down to the beach
hurrying until I no longer hear their rhythm

But now the fog rolls in and the ground is covered with wings
all the doors are locked when the sky drops down like this
thunder knocks in the distance saying ‘“celebrate!”
its echoes wake the clouds, rain gives an answer with applause

on the threshold of storm I turn away from the ocean and look east
a forested mountainside crowded with fading painted houses abandoned
a single car on the road with headlights, we have hundreds of days of rain here

in other words, most people forget anything but rainy weather
the chill from Alaska reaches down only in gusts but snow is distant

This Sunday when Netarts bay is full of kayaks and fishing boats
Oceanside’s patch of beach is strewn with sea grass, people with their dogs
walk amongst shed crab shells, a lone restaurant opens selling coffee and pies
none of the people in rain slickers and hoodies move off as the rain falls

It might be the passersby that amuse me:
The brightly dressed young woman whose ease
And deeply warm smile suggest convincingly
She is a new bride, her heart dancing like the breeze;
Or her companion, whose strength beams
Through his eyes and brightens his gaze,
His love, like the sun's light streams
Over his young wife, whose laughter seems his praise;
Or the gaggle of adolesents,
From whose conversation I catch words
Like “amped” and “dude,” most of which to me make no sense,
Whose clothes seem much worn than what their parents can afford;
Or it might be the happy child
Giggling in her mother's arms,
Whose fun consists of simply flailing all wild
And watching the smiles of those the fun disarms.

Or it might be that I am the youngest of them all,
Cane on the bench beside me,
Taking in the world, anew, fresh, though this be my 76th fall.
If this park bench view means anything, very clearly:
Life is a smiling thing.

The great blue heron haunts the reedy bank,
and combs the midnight waves with razor eyes.
He trolls the river shoals on spindled shank
then beaks his prey with sudden, swift surprise.

In shadowed silhouette his figure begs
my mind to plumb the depths of darkened mire.
But diving there, I rise with naught but dregs,
no meal of meat, no answers to inspire.

The heron pauses thoughtfully mid-stride
to preen his dusky feathers in the glow.
He ***** his crested head to leeward side,
then darts, once more, with certainty, below.

Aloof to prying gaze of passersby,
he lifts majestic wings on moonlit sky.

Damp eyes never meant us well
They're such an inconvenience
And passersby
won't fall in line
Step aside nor
slow their stride
But we'll ignore their careless eyes
Don't want to inconvenience

Cross streets, mean streets, it's
the blind leading the blind
And maybe we're wasting our time
'Cause the map in our hands
spells out misprinted boundaries and
Who can read smeared ink
Run off the page into unknown
territories dripping purple as the bruises
beneath our fingertips

If we hold on any tighter
Our travels will be
Etched into the other's skin
A directory of streets wandered by
the two of us just
a walk down route mother, please and
Round to relapse avenue
To sip champagne
in the light of
dreams forgotten

*but darling the lines in my palms
have always led back to you

‘How do you do’

Stopped me the child’s voice.

Four words of endless span
Heart’s amulet
To me and you
Forever new.

I’m just fine
Finer now
By your sweet greet.

Oh child
Promise me now
You would never cease
Asking passersby
How do you do.

When you are a big man
Greet folks on the street
Thirsty passersby like me.

Promise me
Like that it’ll always be
Like you now tell me
In your lips now and then
Ringing true
How do you do.

Promise me child
They will never seem enough said
Never seem enough spent
Like you greet me today
Tomorrow, ever
From you
As now as then
Will ring forever true
My heart’s amulet
The most delightful words from you

How do you do.

My biggest fear is that everyone will eventually discover how positively unremarkable the soul beneath this husk of a person always was,
To shy away from the cringing passersby as they gawp mercilessly at the offending blemish of my existence.
I'm trying to learn how to like myself, but it's a pathological, preexisting condition to be able to identify all of the things wrong with me simultaneously as an individual and as (un)contributing member to society.
I don't mean to be so cruel, for I know in my heart that self-love is paramount to intelligent, peaceful, pleasant enlightenment,
It's merely that I sense some ubiquitously negative energy whenever I make the attempt to muster up some sort of internal kindness.
No, it gets wasted on all the strangers and non-strangers in my socially habituating dwelling.
I'll share with them the stars from the sky and the very constellations from their hearts and make them feel positively dynamic and optimistic and they'll walk away from me with a cushy spot for hope in their pockets.
And I'll retreat to the shelter on my back, drained as if the flow of my mind were poured out in a colander, leaving the pulpy, distastefully rude thoughts that remained to wreak havoc on my crippled self-esteem.
I'm so sorry that my kindliness is some lewd pantomime of genuine altruism.
I'm sorry if I destroyed the ethereal, impossible image of who you fashioned me into.
I was always afraid that this would happen.

Four frantic  fingers flicker
Over parallel strings
And a classical lullaby
Thrills the ears of passersby;

Chopin du jour
For the masses
Served gratis by a diminutive maestro;

A fleeting fixture for traveling eyes....

And the random audience of curious strangers
Heaves  a collective sigh,
Touched by the uncommon brush of a diminutive maestro...

Plucking parallel strings
From a busy sidewalk in Soho....

~ Pablo (#ABSIS)
1/15/14

do you think you'll ever lay her to rest?
allow her to sleep?
she's stayed awake for months on end
and every time she tried to close her eyes
you shook her awake
again

telling just one more tale
one more tall story
one more lie
that we must all
simply listen to

listen to this little ditty
i'm sure you'll recall it
once i'm done
do you remember the time we...?
no.. not really..

without sleep
all she sees are hallucinations
disjointed recollections
of the tissue paper life
that blows..

in the breeze

did you know
sleep deprivation
is a form of torture?

and you have kept her up
long enough

and she's tired of being worn
like an overcoat
as your splendid outer garment
in all it's melancholy finery
passersby remark
on how well you wear her
and you have the audacity to say
'Oh this old thing'

she's wearing thin and eventually
she'll disappear
altogether

she's becoming threadbare in places
and no matter how tightly
you wrap yourself up in her
she won't keep you warm

but that's only because
you don't want her to get warm
or let her go to sleep
you just won't let her rest in peace
will you

There’s got to be a way out.
I’ve been struggling in this swamp for months.
Thought to keep striving was the key.
But it seems like the key has rusted,
Not working any more.
It has been too long to be patient.
Nobody helped,
For the fear of being dragged in the situation.
I still didn’t back out,
Tried to stand firmly,
And search for a rope.
A rope of time,
That was supposed to lengthen,
To help me,
To make things better.
Looks like it has only become shorter.
Passersby say-
“You can’t escape it”,
I feel disheartened,
Belittled.
I think about giving it a last try,
In case this time I am able to hop out.
Oh boy! That was a great moment!
They were all flabbergasted!
With all my strength,
And my courage pulled together,
I came out!
Stood on the ground,
Victoriously,
Contrary to their remarks.
Then I realized,
There’s always a way out.

I start with a backhoe, displacing
brain-sized clumps of earth.
A few fickle particles escape
between the imposing metal teeth.

The mechanized bucket clinks
against a rigid texture.
I grab a shovel, bending my spine
to the task at hand.

Pretty soon the shovel only scoops up
unsatisfying fistfuls of dust.
It is cast aside for the broom,
revealing the smooth shape underneath.

A dingy film is spread around
by the coarse fibers of the broom.
I grab my toothbrush, furiously scrubbing
the chrome-plated formation.

Now all passersby
can bite my shiny metal
victory.

i was drinking orange ****** ***** with Kitty
the mushroom cloud destroyer,
my compatriot, my downfall
the sky was purple and the grass was red
and we plotted the end of the world
we fought for dominance i lost
sat on my street corner
stealing kisses from
passersby like a magpie,
plucking the shiny buttons off coats.
  when I became the queen of sheba,
decked to the nines in brass buttons
confiscated corroded combustible
i rode an elephant called shiva the destroyer
and sliced long cuts with a sword into my legs
and the white scars were like hope.
i played backgammon and chess with multiple lovers
and they all lost because i was an impenetrable fortress.
I wore the red crown and stabbed out their hearts with my pointed teeth.
then i sat upon the edge of the world alone,
tore out the cores of a million and four  sunflowers
and watched all of the people riding trains
and walking in the parks holding the hand of someone else
someone who isn’t cold Kitty
as the violet sun began to set
i dreamed of what someone else’s hand
bones skin muscle corpulent sinew warmth
and I slept like an obsidian stone.

no one told them it was the place
that we watched the water go by -
sat, for hours,
and watched the water go by.

nobody said it was the spot where i started to move on from the boy i loved
and where you stopped caring what your father thinks.

it's the spot where we sat in the roots of trees
and smoothed sand off of purple river stones.
it's the spot where the old lumber mill had been decaying,
and where the kids would go when they were too old for the playground.
it was where the stray dogs poked around in the rubble and the lumber scraps
and where the stray cats fought and made love.

no one told them it was where we sat
and planned out our lives together -
a pair of girls with too-long legs and our hair askew
whose clothes were covered in paint
and whose hands where used to climbing the tree behind the bakery.
no one told them it was our spot,
our best-friend soul-speaking spot.
nobody said that it was spots like these
that hold the heart of our little town,
our artistic-afterthought town
with its peeling-paint coffee shops and friendly passersby.

they built concrete trees over our spot on the river,
an ugly corporate jungle.
they put grey bricks in the sand and shoveled away the purple river stones
and dug up the roots of our trees,
and now we'll have nowhere to watch the water tumble by.

no one told them it was the spot, our spot,
and no one will remember it but us.

Yelling at a screen after-hours
With old friends and passersby

Getting drunk in desperation
And hooking up with a boy I didn't know at all
After smoking a jointswith a boy outside
Who I cared to get to know, quite a bit

Dancing around the house that I couldn't have known
Would become a strange sort of home;
Covered in candle wax and visions of Depropheria
With brand new, beautiful friends

Neck craning upwards in the Grove of
Titans: the closest thing to God on Earth

New beginnings and transient visions of forever
On a magical bus ride to New York City

Making love for the first time in my bed,
Our bodies joining and intertwining while
My future slept on the couch downstairs

A teary goodbye and a journey to a lakeside
In the middle of the night where that future,
Which blew through like a whirlwind of a summer storm,
Was foreshadowed once again

Empty bottles lining your counter and you
Tearing down, just before leaving,
All my fences too

Making love for the last time in your bed
Right before the bubble of us popped,
Leaving me only with a bowl of soapy water
And a bendy straw: so many
New chances ahead

A whole community: the family to get me through
That love just passed and the happy moments too-
Falling asleep next to someone new
And clinking glasses on the dock
With a vegan pizza to top it off

The final falling apart of April to August
And a new heartbeat pulsing in
The quiet spaces between my fingers

Trying a new drug at the top of a tree
And laughing all through the journey,
The LSD nothing and your friendship everything

Flickering fluorescent lights reminding me
Of all I've lost; of all I've gained
In this beautiful year
Of 2013

Little Sheriff walks around these parts after school,
shooting invisible birds or bandits
with twin finger guns and magic bullets.

Little Sheriff talks like an old Western in his pre-pubescent voice,
even up in these here northern parts,
and tells passersby to stick their hands way up in the sky.

Little Sheriff wastes his enemies with four even shots to the chest
to restart their hearts and make them his friends.

                                                               ­                                                  Until Real man walked by one day,
                                                                ­        caught off guard and alarmed by cheek exploding gunfire,
                                                        ­                                      and sunk one real slug into the Sheriff’s brain.

S.Kelly Woz '12

SUCH A SUNNY DAY

the objects
in his pocket

have lost
their identity

their significance
to anyone but him

a hairy comb
photo of an unknown

woman
who can she be

a torn-in-two
train ticket

chewing gum
much masticated

yet put back
in his blazer's breast pocket

small change
a penny and a sixpence and

a button
from the cuff

no clue as to who
he had been

before the water claimed him
as its own

the disgust and fascination
of those

passersby who continue
to pass by

it such
a sunny day

for death to
intrude this way

the miscellany of objects
ownerless now

the waters of the Liffey
calm and unmoved

Christmas on Hydra.
Fingers interlocked
squeezing tightly
I and you
looking at
the shimmering sea
kissing each other as
passersby are surreptitiously
stealing a look at our eternal bliss
swathed in mufflers
with breaths misting up
the crisp winter air.
I and you
melting
into each other forever
during this holiday season.

The poem is published by Silver Birch Press. To view it visit :https://silverbirchpress.wordpress.com/2015/12/08/christmas-on-hydra-poem-by-sofia-kioroglou-me-during-the-holidays­-poetry-and-prose-series/

Tis not my mind
Nor my heart
Tis not my word
Nor my speech
These rhythmic impulses
Striking gently against my nerves
And dripping...
These droplets of harmony  
Absorbed; on the pages of time
This verse or perhaps a tune
This theme or perhaps a symphony
To be sung or perhaps unsung
To be heard or perhaps unheard
Yet splashed and imprinted
On the score of a lovers heart
I be the lover; Him be my beloved
As I looked up to the heavens
And drank the pouring rain
Cascaded down from my beloved's abode
To soak and fill the cracks of my imagination

And you my friend!
A passersby;
In quest of your beloved's song
But when your beloved sings not,
Return..
Within,
To hear your silver chimes
Hear once and hear again
How the tumult ends
Rewarded or unrewarded
Never you are empty handed
Hence leave your instrument of doubt hither
On your stage of tenet
But seek and return; again
And see with each return
How your orchestra rises, how it plays
How you hear and how you sway
For then, you'll be the lover
But only He will be your beloved

Wrapped in your smile, toes toying at the edge
Where your eyes' soft cloth blankets me,
Blocks the wind, and the cold, red brick below,
I and you, swim silent alone,
Hot and deep in a tiny, bright star,
Until turning you tug at the covers,
Dragging with your eyes this warm world,
And the cold rushes back, and the brick,
And the wind.

Noises from the street carry softly over garden walls,
Of passing cars and passersby, and I wonder;
Do you know, any more than they do,
How the corners of your lips, when they open,
Open not to show rows of white pearl,
But instead to consume my heart?

Heartbeat limps
into my ears as I perfunctorily
greet your memory.
The slate of recollection wiped
clean
by a year-long flood.
Good.
Passersby on the street - your
memory and me.

Heartbeat finally caught
up to steady-drum-wit.

I'm glad, I am glad now -
you exist
only as a breath-steam image
on my glasses.

I got a new pair this year
so I could see more clearly.

I wanted to die

This house This place I can't

Tried to drown it smother suffocate deprive ******* life-force

I felt feel I belong to some Otherplace

I still feel; weeknight dim-dark

Streetlamps cities and my eyes swole shut a silly haze

No sugar or milk please thank you and could you

The owls sound off—or owl they all sound the same don't they

One too many passersby

Screams far away terrible

Wait for prescribed calm to take hold

Crows are not like owls are not like vultures

No thing is like any other thing

This I've come to sense

I can't shake this pain from my belly

Blood on the street;
The man who cast the first stone
was discharged and acquainted
While passersby were jailed

Cabal in the chambers;
Making treacherous remarks
Lady Justitia is not only shortsighted
The silence of her treachery is deafening

Customise looting spree;
Men of means are pardon of their sins
While men of straw burn in hell
A cleansing ritual to appease angry gods

Two mad men fighting without cause
One is protected with immunity clause

Hey ** and there you go
And when you get there
Well, there you are.
Now, ain’t that something;
Better than nothing?
Two guys walk into a bar.

The barkeep asks them
What will you guys have?
The both gave him a look.
I would like to be rich
Both guys said, but that
Is neither aa creek or a brook

Two little old ladies
Were rocking on a porch
Throwing fruit at passersby.
Their husbands hid out
Finding it were best
In case someone asked why.

All this and all that was
Somewhere not quite all
The way to awesome.
There were a few pretty boys
And then some women that
Were known as handsome.

Eenie meenie miney moe
Olly olly oxen fee.
Whattya know about that?
Higgeldy piggledee
Hotsy and totsy, has
Your tongue got your cat?

Thingamjigs, doolollies
Gadgets, whirlygigs
Don’t amount to nothing.
Whatsername and Miss Thing
That ought to do it right now
To keep your beer frothing.

A symphony of modality,
Of fiction and reality.

With the rhythm of a syllogism
Of a logical decision.

A shallow sky, where rats fly
Singing lies to passersby
Amidst the cries and goodbyes
The night sighs, as glistening scythes
Steal souls and take lives

But nothing dies, nothing vanishes
in this cryptic lullaby

I'll start walking, I don't care what you say.
I'll start talking, I don't care to who you pray.

I'm done standing here watching you fly like I always do.
I'm not stranded here, it's time for something new.


So I leave you in this cryptic lullaby.

Coming down, it all falls down.
let yourself fly away like free bird.
slow up your pace losing full speed,
lend your ears to things heard.
all gathered 'round please take heed.

Coming down, it all falls down.
trading this nightmare for a dream.
down on my knees eyes to sky,
carvings I read what do they mean?
I stare at the faces of passersby.

Coming down, it all falls down.
I'll move on to a place for only bards.
pushed 'n shoved idiots don't budge,
bang their gavels loud and hard.
people acting like a judge.

Coming down, it all falls down.
one day grins will turn to frowns.
hecklers claim seeds sowed,
in this clean shaven town.
no "X's" mark the spot or roads.

Coming down, it all falls down.
won't anybody put'em in place?
misplaced doubt and fear,
crooked smirk on face.
people stop and sneer.

Coming down, it all falls down.
you see won't rearrange?
that what you think
it never changes,
how can it be?

There are stories that are written down, carved in stone, others are told  out loud or made for song, and some still linger--painted on walls of mountains, caves. Wallpaper tapestries, depictions of a good day's successful hunt. While the communal fires and bones have turn to dust, a good day stands still in that ****** snap shot.

From wars of old and origin tales, there are those narratives passed down as legacy, heritage of families, the wealth of lessons through time, reminders and warnings, and glories of victories against enemies faded away in defeat. How sometimes those tribal memories' recollection instill or motivate into action--change, or rites of passage (whether successfully or doomed) the undulation of life carries on, and finds a way.

Yet the stories that keep and hold our passions' interests, retold many times to quench our hearts, these are the ones more profound and rich of moral l grounds, full of fertile meaning. Poetry of feelings spoken word of theater, out in the wide howling wilderness, while the wind becomes the wolf at the moon. We are moved by and by, as well as the soaring soul within. We learn to love those ancestral ghosts of yore, resurrected in the beat of drum, the pantomime of sons as their fathers, the rising embers and shadows running from the flames. Still, not all can carry the past or the details that fog while our rivers rush the seasons.

In many languages and lives  of every breathing passersby, there are also sparks of moments brief as an evening sky's meteor shower, rainfall of quicksilver streaks of light. Once and awhile there is awe and wonder, if witnessed by mindful eyes and held still in the same place where dreams awake in our sleep, has no need of script or reasons why, it is simple and beloved. The great and grandest of One story is gleaned, witnessed and recognized. The constellations brighten and seem to coalesce, the Universe opens its infinite arms, its vast lungs, and with one sigh within this witness, breathing, in recognizing a connection with breath and firmament, the miracles of Life...

If only briefly like a flash of light from a meteorite in death-fall, the Infinite and Absolute now borne of proof -- without a word to convince or purchase. Words and like Texas Tea pollutes so heavily the kind and flight, thickly darkly removes what thine eyes doth and must see.

And as an avid lover of poetic justice & epics & heroes from mystic times, I keep close my heart's affection, since all love stories continue ever after to shine...

I see you
in all the dots and lines
diamonds and geometry
alive cosmic symmetry
I want to be
a speck of one letter in
your vast alphabet,
just to be exhaled
in the breadth of your true story
the shrapnel casualty or
pawn sacrificed for your glory
I want only you
to remember by...
And a No One like me
made alive even in death
in all your divine skies
full of Story...
Oh Goddess, my goddess,
what magnificence and wonder
are in mine eyes....

Then there are stories in silence and unrequitedly replied inside:
One kiss : begins : Big Bang!! --The story the theory of Everything...
Love begets white lightning... Electric veins alive... Glowing tapestries of every life...  Story...

The tapestry in the window
Has fallen on one side
But she continues waving
To the passersby
Gifting them gold from her left hand
And showing her stance
Perched upon a lotus
She's a still-life dance
Algae consuming her kneecaps
As she remains in a trance
Her eyes deeper
Than what could be portrayed
With the dye
As we are all deeper
Than what is portrayed on the
Outside

You told me my colors clashed
But I think them more to dash
and lash out
at passersby to sing and scream,
to shout
to sigh and shrug,
to let it all out

To breathe real deep and hold it there
my chest the spectrum swells to a tear
dulls, pallids, dry and opaque
to sing and scream, to shout,
to shake.
Violently to wake.

Violently vaporize voluptuously
from lustful lucidity lusciously
to chromatically color kaleidoscopically
and wake.
Silently shake and to...
Brilliantly Break.

Such a brilliant break, the day's.
To shatter smoothly in calm collision

through the dripping dew, the haze
Oh the grip of you, the taste

        Such a fantastic fission
Illuminate
          Such a drastic decision
in a dreamstate.
             Such a calm collision.

You told me my colors clashed.

Your eyes, my sinking shrine
A wishing well in Town Square
filled with hope and change over time
Long and Loving I would sweetly stare
copper glowin' fine

Your eyes, at the present, you forgot to mention
what new love with my coins did you buy?

Your eyes, at the present, you forgot to mention
was my wishing well shrine emptied in the night?

Your eyes, at the present, you forgot to mention
why void of shine, lined with lies?




You told me my colors clashed
Your eyes, though sublime,
Maybe Mis-matched.

I was on a journey to being perfect
On this road, the landmarks were my defects
The walls were painted with my mistakes
Passersby constantly hailed my weakness

The path was dark and lonely
Felt so ugly, those comments really bruised me
Was eager to fight like I was Bruce Lee
My thoughts said everybody ******* me

Definitely, my saddest venture ever
I thought I was very clever
Gladly, I found an escape through the sewer

Oh, What an awful adventure
Welcomed myself back to reality
Learnt to appreciate my inner treasure
Helped me live above mediocrity.