one--two--covered streams,
staining palms of the undiscovered,
they have holes in ears--for you--their mouths are wide--wide--open--!
yet they hide 'neath tender shield.

peekaboo, I don't see you.
for the flowers cry not for the see-ers,
but for the cut and tears.

bite into your wrist,
and watch the ache and finished work flow,
into ******* and tired vocab,
as it is merely zilch you're destined to grow.

wide--wide open,
yet you bawl not,
how will you get your food now, O dear?
simply let the ocean run hot.

they will not bother with whiners,
whose lips that starve,
the words now old timers,
and the blood that was carved.

dig deep--dig deep, my love,
and find nothing but ash.
die penniless--die penniless, O dove,
and thrive on the sunken ****.

they drink eulogies,
from soft gray tongues,
and murmur carelessly,
for the young-uns.

the world won't wait--
forever moves it--
**** the weak--the hard workers,
and take up the one shot-ers.

simply how the horse drinks it's water,
and how the earth soaks in rain.
nothing--nothing--nothin' but minor,
and disappointing.

simplicity rings the loudest bell,
and thought sings drooping tunes.
for the world hides not and tells.

and blossoms melt in places anew,
merely brainless--brainless--!
and the shield slips from blue.

for now the world is clear,
and doesn't care for the sanguine ruin in those eyes,
let your work fade--let your work fade, my babe,

play peekaboo a little longer, and drag the sword between the lies.

I am lost in this play land
Surrounded by toys in a magical land
A choo choo train, a laughing clown
An incredible circus in a Toy land,
Is this the place called Peekaboo Play land?
If yes...
please call me Alice in Wonderland

Sweet dreams are made of cheese


Sweet dreams are made of cheese;
Who am I to offer you brie?
I’ve travelled the world on a sea of fleas;
Everybody is looking for Sunday.


Some of them want to feed you!
Some of them want to get fed by you.
Some of them want to amuse you.
Some of them want to be amused.


(Long instrumental…)


Sweet dreams are made of cheese;
Who am I to offer you brie?
I’ve travelled the world on a sea of fleas;
Everybody is looking for Sunday.


Some of them want to feed you!
Some of them want to get fed by you.
Some of them want to amuse you!
Some of them want to be amused!!!


I wanna kangaroo, to amuse you.
I wanna know what’s inside that stew.


Moving home; I keep moving home.
Moving home; I’m moving hooommme.
Moving home; I’m moving home.
Moving hooooommmme!!!


(Long instrumental…)


Sweet dreams are made of cheese;
Who am I to offer you brie?
I’ve travelled the world on a sea of fleas;
Everybody is looking for Sunday.


Some of them want to feed you!
Some of them want to get fed by you!
Some of them want to amuse you,
Some of them want to be am-----used----!!!


I’m gonna peekaboo and amuse you.
I’m gonna know what’s inside!!
Gonna peekaboo and amuse you.
I’m gonna know what’s inside,
Stew…


(C)2016 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

Passing the sheets over his eyes,
"Boo!" Met with laughter beyond reprise.
Passing the sheets over his eyes,
"Boo!" Gazing through the stars that shine at night.
Passing the sheets over his eyes,
"Boo!" Soaking up little moments That are gifted, with the boy.
Passing the sheets over his eyes,
"Boo!" Wondering how long I can keep this up,

you know?...
Passing the sheets over his eyes,

"Boo!"

Afraid to blink, afraid to miss time.

if you can be anything
be kind.

we are all just humans.
we laugh at cute cat videos,
hum little songs,
eat raw cookie dough and laugh when it makes one giant cookie mass.

life is made of these moments.
people deserve so much love.
how often do we remind our families we love them?
is it often enough?
how many days do we think only of ourselves.
human nature is beautiful and terrible and stunning.

somehow hate seeps through the cracks of time and makes us bitter and angry.

and it's fine to be angry.
just don't let it consume you.
remember sometimes that there
are old folks out there who still tease each other,
there are babies who giggle when you play peekaboo,
there are dogs with slobbery tongues who need head scratches,
there are children spinning and laughing when they fall.
humams are important.
we are special.

even people we say we hate.
i thought i hated my mom
but i know she cares
and i have seen her run when she thought i was in danger.
i have seen her break into tears at getting a DUI and trying to explain to a child that she might lose her job.

being human is tough.
our hearts harden trying to protect ourselves but
we end up locking people out.

in trying to avoid being hurt
we hurt the ones we love.

please never forget that each person you meet has more than just facet.
people are stunningly complex.
don't judge someome til you've walked two moons in their moccasins.

humans are worth so much.
i don't know what i am saying
but i mean it with all of me.
i love you.
you deserve so much.

3 year old girl attempting peekabo

Me - Ahh, that's good going! What I always do with peekaboo is do it round a door!

Goes behind door & does peekaboo

3 Year Old Girl - *laughs

Me - Ha ha! I always do peekaboo like this with My Cat, she loves it, she always says "meow" when I do it!

My Cat.

I love how our proprietorial just rolls off my tongue,
it makes me know
that we belong.

Voice resounding in my head
(timpani)
Melodyharmony
everythinginbetween
harmonymelody

I­n the bloom of your
sprite-like youth.

You were His first creation
Women constructed from your broken ribs
and all else from dust
as you shall be.

Bodies of cracked red earth and
Sunshine
Of absent goodnight kisses
and cigarettes.

Skin to skin
Sweat to sweat
(whose is whose)

You
made of
Brittle bones rattling through your sighs
Pulsing through the sinews of your legs
hidden beneath thin skin
pale
beating, feeble heart


Who can tell from my lying eyes
behind the blackandwhite bandanna
(peekaboo)
Of a folded
diaphanous paper moon
amid a field of stars.

Expect miracles every minute
Not.

Go away children if you want
Uplifting,
This is a dark adventure
Composition.

Gloomy the mood,
Gorgeous the day,
You have received my disclaimer,
Scurry away.

I scribe smoke that is uncontainable,
Smoke that suffocates, not for decoration.

You are the unrighteousness, not on the list,
Peekaboo voyeurs who read and dismiss.
Why I pen this or this.
Lost in the shuffling cards,
Luck is not inexhaustible,
Mine, bottled in the bin labelled,
The last recycling.

Dark is the blue sky,
White clouds just clothing to disguise
Morose is the vision,
Of eyes that have not seen a miracle
In decades of waiting.

Let us divorce today,
Find good cheer and company elsewhere.
From my finger these words fall freely,
No waiting, from me to you instantaneously.

What ails thee smoke scribe?
I have given and been taken, leeched and bled
and now wasted the last of my
Nine lives.

This is where I stand, edged and ledged,
Miracles are not shown to me anymore.
My quota, used, I'm not us-confused,
Cause I wrote the disclaimer,
The warnings, the risks, well understood.

Write of the good, the bad, of the
Beautiful that does not last,
Wonder if this is the poem  
shall be my Epitaph?

Poetry craft, was the sword I breathed thru,
Unlike you, my motet is completed,
The music, the canon smoke, here, come, then
Gone.

they don't look like me.
those girls
with their *******
and baby teeth.

pink daisy chains,
sweet blubbering.
joyful hearts swollen,
i can feel them.

i smell a childhood memory,
she loves mornings.
the one in red
kisses her puppy,
sleeps in braided hair.

under your gaze,
they'll be paper forever.
and me?
am i tree bark to you?
do i still exist
while i'm gone?

peekaboo.

baby i've called you,
thus baby you've become.
my ******* are sore,
i've run dry of milk.

photographs don't bleed.
**** on something else for dinner.
but i insist,
keep tripping over
that tail of yours.
i find it rather funny.

.jordan peterson is right, it's unrealistic to watch *******, and even begin to "think" that i might **** these women... correct... absolutely... i get the ones who drink beer, are Thai bisexual, which i find on park benches, invite home, play some Miles Davies, and later **** in the garden... it's unrealistic, for sure... but then... watching modern *******? so... these women are exhibitionist, masochists and nymphomaniacs, bound into one?! no wonder Italian ******* from the 1970s seems more tasteful, compared to all the gagging *******, and impromptu ****... jordan peterson is right, i'll never **** these women... but... there's not obvious reason why i'd want to, either. once upon a time, when ***, was like fine art... and you weren't forced to choke via *******... and **** wasn't exactly an option; but more like a hand-job.

you know that moment when a song,
   that turns you into a human
body drum kit of tapping
along to the beat...
when there's actually a bass guitar
signature reference...
and at some point in
the subtle intermission...
you stop grooving...
slap your thigh...
   grunt out: oomph!
puff! blah la la. oomph!
get your moccasins on...
and... look at the up-side of things...
you won't be *******
with your socks-on during
the one-night stand...
  or for that matter: cocooned
under the bedsheets...
there's nothing worse
than ******* with your socks on...
well... there's *******
under the bed-sheets...
        - p.s. why do people think
the 1980s were a ****** decade
for music?!
     the 1970s were *******...
with all their disco...
                  plus you had the counter
with all the e.m.o. ******* of
Joy Division and the Cure
and what became grunge...
    Phil Collins?! go bro!
w'ooh w'ooh!
            wallaby!
you want bad music?
listen to some krzysztof penderecki...
because i know what these people
are doing... pop music is,
supposed to be infectious...
you can pass on some jazz...
sure... but pop music:
why beat yourself over liking
something you can't exactly control...
no jacket required?
seminal album... no song in particular...
let's face...
genesis is... what genesis is:
not exactly pink floyd of king crimson...
the solo artifacts
of P. Gabriel (Solsbury Hill)...
         P. Collins (take your pick)...
sure... selling England by the pound...
of the women i loved,
i loved to what could best
describe itself as an antithesis
of cinematic romance...
and... for it's worth:
      i returned to myself satisfied...
subsequently,
between Ms. Amber and Mother Death...
the women around me
went around minding their own
business...
     and i went around minding
my own...
                and the sun glowed,
rose in the morning,
and set itself beneath the sea
come the evening...
          and the moon played
peekaboo...
                    and all of what was required
was ingested...
with all the excesses
scattered for others to pick up
and make additions to their lots
of the mortal whole,
otherwise called life,
otherwise called breath and soul...
            mutter tod:
                i am on my way;
fear not, i have no Sylvia Plath tugging
along...
       i never dared to live the kind
of life associated with Ted Hughes...
   just prostitutes, prostitutes, prostitutes
to the best of my accomplished
fathom that constituted memory...
    a love by an hourly rate...
                   and we laughed,
and we cried...
  and we kissed for said hour,
after having forgotten to trim my *****
hair to allow *******.

The sky: an ever-changing canopy,
Endless variety.
Black at night,
Punctuated only by stars and moonlight,
And clouds by day.

Cloud-ships sail along an invisible sea,
Scowling black clouds,
Or fluffy white palaces of snow.
No end of shapes and forms,
Yet sometimes formless mists.

Clouds that are net curtains
In the window to space,
Or growling black monsters
Firing deadly lightning-forks.

If we’re lucky,
There aren’t any clouds at all,
Just blue from horizon to horizon
Everywhere you see.

Golden-red dawns and sunsets
Contrast well with deepest blues
All colours and hues.

By night and day, Moon and Sun
Play Peekaboo behind those clouds.
And stars forever twinkle and swirl
Along the Milky Way.
No words can adequately capture
The beauties of the sky,
It just gives God’s Believers
Every Reason Why.

Paul Butters

Yea Peekaboo
Pikachu
Me you see how I electrocute
I mean shock you
I mean magnetically I accume
Energy That blooms
Positively im charged like electrons
Off negatively the neutrons
Enough power inside this timed bomb
You cant disarm
Voltron
You lookin at a powerbomb
My light shall dawn
Even when they cloud Vashawn
Thats how darkness Responds
Dnt wanna see the light
Wait till Pikachu Strike
Evolve to Raichu
I'll enlighten you
Drinkin on some powerjuice
Goin see some lighting shoot
Thats the storm i'm bout to produce
For the storms ive been through

the silhouette cast from the sun light
  
there is a  tease of peekaboo played thru  eyelets

a taste of yellow to a crispy white cotton
revealing an opened back and naked shoulders

a memory and a time
Missed
this is the smile that comes to my eyes
cast from a simple Sundress .

I wanna smoke a cigarrette with Obama

We’ll lower the sound on Futurama

He will hand me a pack of Marlboro or Newport

He will puff I will puff

Life will be like a resort

We will talk about politics and in vain

Puff again puff again puff again puff again

We would smoke and we would quit

He will swear again

For six years ”no cigarrettes lit”

I will quit smoking too

We will play peekaboo

And turn the volume back up on Futurama

I will boast to my friends

I quit smoking again with Obama

Evening hours of playing
peekaboo with the sun
And i lay down lavender words
loping and longing in my
journey to you
Crossing infinities of time
Chiding my days
And chastising my ways
For you to return
When you retreated like a soft
murmur
Like gentle untuned ripples
Like the melancholic wind that
blows and draws in through
my window
Addressing my pages and
leaving without reciting my
rhymes
Like the fumble fuming puff
hailing then slowly fading and
failing
Foamy and fluffy with the
froathy cream yet not
savouring the flavour
Calling yet not caressing
Rhyming yet not flowing
Leaving me like a vagabond
With a foramen self
Grappling ,gripping and then
giving the grave,
the soul you gave

When I was young I use to sit in my windowsill,
and smell the foundry late at night.
I could hear the rumble of the coal cars,
I could feel my parents fight.

Then I'd watch the trees dancing in the breeze,
while the moon played Peekaboo.
Life was just a game
on Maple Avenue.

And there were bright Winter mornings and long Summer nights,
but I never knew what they meant.
There were sermons on making time and money,
but it never made a dent.

Amid the factories there were dreams to please,
though you wondered if they'd ever come true.
It was hard to escape
from Maple Avenue.

Yet, somewhere inside of me,
where no one had ever been.
Below the goodness,
and above the sin.

Was a spark of silence,
that no one ever heard.
And I'd close my eyes and follow it
and savor every word.

And even without asking
it told me what to do.
It told me son, you've gotta run,
from Maple Avenue.

Now some of us were sinners,
none of us were saints.
Some of us were ***** and dreamless,
but we had no complaints.

We'd trade it all for just a glimpse
of what we might turn into.
But money only traded money
on Maple Avenue.

I've tried to get it all back again,
but it's not like it was before.
You can't come back into the pack,
when the ***** don't know her pups no more.

It's not a small thing for a man to die happy,
it's not a hard thing to do.
That's just one little thing I've learned
from Maple Avenue.

Dreaming in the dream (Broken inception)

-Alexis J. Meighan-
11-12-2013 10:45:45pm

I could try.... Exhale
I could sigh
Read the menu, make my choice
Clear and simple tone in my voice
I make the healthy decision.
The one all the world says work best.
The one the waiter recommended, **** near on knees bent

But yet there's an error on the dish I receive. "That's not what I ordered"
I double checked my choice and even went along with the spectators cohesion, and ample coercing.

"I ordered what you suggested, to be your best
and
Yet I am wrong for being wronged by the establishment's
I need to see your management. This plate of food is an embarrassment
And most of all not what you said I would get"

I ask my mates around the table, a bowl of this is what you praised, yet a plate of Bul+#!t is what she gave
How can you say it is what it is not
When we all want the same dish BUT
Different is what I got and you say its all the same and I assure you madam it is not

Then I am made out to be insane. Patronized!
I am told "we are aware that you believe that you are
entitled to what you claim"
Though the table and server don't feel the same.
I should keep asking for that in-correct entree(They say)

I Demand a bowl of that
Waitress then replies
"yes sir I will obliged"
She returns with plate of this
Again enraged I explain again and again
"That not the F#€@ng bowl of fiddles you keep insisting when I maintain my choice from menu is undermined and obscured with plates of bull$#+t now I want out of this place"

I stand and scowl at all around
throw my napkin on the ground
i can't believe this waitress audacity to mock my effort and good intent
with her insisting insults that my brain lacks presence.
Like I don't know what I want and how to ask.
Exiting the building I look back and I ask
"Are you people all crazy?"
Everyone makes eyes contact to my brow, all wearing mask that resembles cats.

They begin to clap and whistle. And in unison chant
"You can't win, you can't win, you can't win, YOU CAN'T WIN"
I cover my ears and close my eyes then it all stops and to my surprise,
I fix my stare to where I had disappeared to.... Like a dream I am woken in confusion ear to phone,
hearing the unrecognizable babble from a voice in my home.
Then a click, dial tone, a beep as I touch the green button, I raw rush of pain postponed, as it (the sensation) passes,
the calm, the rational, the point where I am aware, that I am alone in thinking I've grown, destitute in comparison to the riches of the idealistic child I saw playing peekaboo with his scars in the mirror,
when now there is always doubt on how we proceed and believe. The doubt that my dreams and my reality, altered state or sober receiving the wrong plate, can it ever get along. always somber from the vast knowledge, always knowing more than I let on.

A good title for a sandy beach, sunset and drum stick, kind of song.

......Xin

I sometimes stare at the clouds
They are so beautiful...aren't they?
The residents of the sky
Rulers of the vast sky
Constantly travelling
They take various shapes and sizes
Some small patches
Some big formations
They sport different colours
Some white
Some grey
Decorating the blue sky
And giving it a different look
Everyday when the sun rises and sets behind the clouds
The visual is simply breathtaking
I especially love it when the sun plays peekaboo with the clouds
Then at night the moon peeps out from behind the clouds
And gives the night sky a whole new meaning
Of course there are those days and nights when the clouds overpower the sun and the moon
One thing i envy about clouds is that they seem to have so much time on their hands
Never in no hurry
Slowly moving across the azure sky
Almost teasing everyone's hopes
Will it pour today?
Some days are the bad days
The clouds flatter to deceive
While there are some days when the clouds fulfill their promises
Lightning flashes across the sky
Followed by the sounds of thunder
And then when they burst out
And the first drop kisses the earth...
....it's sheer magic!!!
Washing away the dirt
Almost cleansing the earth of it's impurities
And satisfying it's soul

~
abruptly waking to discover
the sempiternal daylight of herself
in a small silent village in Brussels

the sky's a cloudless blue
and she needs the sun
like children need two parents

sunglasses conceal bedroom eyes
smiles hide like inverted *******
clothed in peekaboo milieu

a highly individual creature
in an era of the exaggerated curve
she's an amnesiac

doodle-dawdling in the altogether
wrapping herself around
mise-en-scène

it's breakfast with Mr. Svengali
then unacquainted foothills
and undergrowth
in the flaring of conjugal
light and shadow

hum
thrum
'n strum
she's got the whole wide world
in her hands

her simple slantwise silhouette
declivitous neck
inclining embonpoint
summoning him

no clock, no watch
the keeping of time
is served by rapping
her crown upon the headboard
at regular intervals

her open-tempered sighs
closing with the heaviness
of a sleepy hush

until the echoing of church bells
announce the footfalls
of tomorrow-come-looking
~

noon day shadows
filtering in through the treetops
devoid of courtesy
they flood my desk with their darkness
reflected on my page
amidst shards of light
patchwork prints on paper
playing peekaboo with each other
as the page flutters
in the warm barelybreeze that touches
so softly I’m not sure if its real
or it is my mind flapping

-Vijayalakshmi Harish
  04.10.2012
Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

It’s nights like these;
when the sky feels raw-quiet
and the moon hangs so low-heavy
and pulpy, parchment yellow,
dripping and left to sun-stain and disintegrate
against dull ghost stories
and stinging to-do lists.
This is when I feel it- the fracturing.
You’re out of sight.
I’m out of mind.  

I crack the window,
blink loose stars out of focus
and send them shotgun galloping
across the flat-hum pulsing,
tin tinged and navy evening static.

The North Star needs new batteries.
He flickers and sways but won’t
extinguish. He is soft and solemn-
a lazing, dazing anchor whose fraying rope
weaves bowline knots
and hitching ties
into each inch of my drying hair.

Every strand of the night breathes itself into life.
The pieces are softening and shifting,
howling and crawling.
They become young men planning,
flexing at high tide and daring
each other further out with each set of waves.
They are posing, pretending to be
what they think the word ‘reckless’ means.

They are throwing their bodies into surf
and wailing.
They are crashing hard
and violent
against the shore.

They are shaking out golden limbs
and rubbing bloodshot eyes.
I watch bruises bloom and gashes erupt a flash
of crimson before salt water clean and stung.

They are flashing gleeful smiles
and throwing taunting screams across
whole seas while diving back,
quickly, elegantly,
into the same rough surf
that just spit them out.

Maybe they’re proactive,
maybe things hurts less when you
know where the hurt will come from.
Maybe the game isn’t to stay lovely
and bright and whole;
but to know pain’s possibilities so intimately
that when it comes time for you to break
you can do so without shattering
completely.

Nights like these;
sitting cross-legged with a blank
page open and an aching, reeling,
sickly-warm ribbon sprouting from my molars-
I get it.

Streamers wave proudly across
my body.
They grip and simmer,
they wind tightly around  
organs and bones who
gave up their hiding spots
and surrendered their secrets
the first time I let him come in.

The strings are bright and knot themselves tight.
They tether my windpipe,
weld each rib colorfully between sternum and spine.
They coil down and tie off;
thick, swaddled and bobbing, bowing
themselves regally around my coccyx.

Nights like these I have no armor.
Where is my skin?
I stir and rattle to even the slightest shift of Earth.
Exposed and quaking, I body-map bolts of light.
The light is tap dancing over lungs,
igniting blood and ricocheting through the summer camp,
arts and crafts hysteria fusing my anatomy.
It plunge pastels deep into the marrow of my bones.
The room is smoky, my gut splashes about, electrocuted.
I stop feeling tired.

The thing is- what I’m really trying to say,
is that I have no words right now.
There are no pretty lines caught in the twine of
my hip joints and no fiery prose laying
eggs in my spinal fluid.

There is no poem to write
about the fleshy, sour
smell of my own heart
roasting on a pyre or the hours it will take
to scrub off the charred bits of melting muscle
now staining the carpet.

This bitter heat creeping up my throat
and the sallow contraction of my
belly are not the prologue to a revolution-
my diagnosis is not a metaphor.

They are simply the tangy symptoms of the sadness
pinging around my insides and playing
peekaboo among the weeds of my broken body and sticky mind.
She will wait, biding time, for a properly rapt audience.
I whisper then whine that I’m too messy,
too slouchy, too emotionally ill-equipped to house a heart
maybe breaking,
definitely ripping, across-the-ballroom
slipping and wrecking-ball imploding.
Sadness smacks her lips and smirks.
No one rides for free.  

Nights like these I think
maybe I’ve wasted all my words;
my sentences and precious syntax and swooping rhetoric,
on lighter blows and mere heartaches.
I am a ragdoll limply stretching.
I am standing completely still, taking inventory.
I’m puzzled, though decidedly unthreatened,
by the glass-littered ground, my bleeding feet.
I mean look at the big picture:
I lit myself on fire.
I’m not worried about sunburn.

I know now that it has happened-
the hurt circulates my veins
and pumps me full of vehemence.
The act of breathing is ferocious,
I am a tangle of raw nerves.
This is the night I’m left with a heart shattered
in six hundred pieces on the floor and absolutely no poetry rising
from my pores to help glue it back together.

I said I get it.
I should have practiced.
I should have left my clothes on the sand and
ran toward the sea, naked and unembarrassed,
while diving head first into fierce undertows
and crashing with the boyish bodies of the night.

I should have experimented;
explored all the ways hurt could find me
while the beach was still mine to breathe out and yell for
without fear of being told 'no.'
But I didn’t. I kept my clothes on and my secrets to myself.

Tonight I’m a wreck and this isn’t a test.
I'm so far out, weighed down
by this boxy, heavy pain
ripening in my arms.
I'm panicky and paddling in any direction,
trying to keep my head above water
and praying the shore will appear and welcome me
once I get through this next set of waves,
through this next set of waves.

We used to stay up
and watch the sun play peekaboo
with the skyline
and sit in the street
at 4 AM discussing everything
and nothing.
Breaking other peoples showers
in the night
and making love on their mother's
Dining room tables.

Now I resort to ep's and
YouTube videos, just
to remember the sound of your voice
or how your fingers move while you
strum your acoustic and massacre
your drums.

You have made my stomach tense with laughter
and my eyes rain
and you have made me love.

But this will be my last
Poem for you.
My last ode, my last confession.
There will be no more soft sweet syllables
or angry goodbye lines.
There will be no more heartfelt repetition
or cheesy, sing song rhymes.

We have lied
and we have cheated
making Misery moan with pleasure.
We have martyred it,
buried it,
and given the eulogy.

We used to climb to roof tops
and watch the lights dance
across our city.
We used to know each other.

intricate grooves
in wood
feel like keys
that take me too
doors i have never seen.
the
indentations,
tell stories
through sweaty fingertips
and numb lips.
time is the leaves that fall out of your ears
while playing a game of peekaboo behind your eyes.

doubt has turned me into an animal,
and love has surely turned my soul into a beast
so to fix this silly little heart of mine
i need to keep myself covered in roots to keep me grounded
and  build up walls of bark around me to stay strong,
swallow my thoughts
with a glass of water
and with a smile on my face
let the thrill of the unknown
and adventure
take over
because

*for today, the forest lives within me.

I’ve been waiting for so long,
On the road that never ends
Migrating between seasons to my
Pastoral lands north and south
Searching for your unfamiliar face
In forest foothills, swarming buses
And basins next to the Ganges.
I can wait till the moon hits the sea
The time- till you come, till you come.

Flashing lights, chiming bells,
Inscent sticks and a peculiar charm-
You carried, they said.
But you’re flesh and blood for me
Truth and reality knotted between
My garland of jasmine flowers.
I can wait with full heart and glistening eyes
Till you come, till you come.

There is no haste, I’m anticipating an upcoming
There is no starry blanket or mount chariot
But there are fireflies and a summer sun
Playing peekaboo with my shadow
Behind the mangrove forest
Envisaging your ticket to this world.
A crew of lasses claims and expects you
But you’re beyond love they could conceive.
Let the world scream, cry and yell
I still can wait till you come, till you come.

You’re a friend, philosopher and guide
I adore, worship and awaits your arrival.
Merchant ladies who walked my hut
Asked me all day to keep a ghee lamp
I lit a thousand lamps and still you dint-
Walk my shed. This life is not long enough
To witness thy face, eternal and mysterious
I can wait till you come, till you come.

The journey is beautiful, endless and offhand,
Walking through lanes strangely acknowledged
But there’s a feeling familiar still so odd.
The walk is not to say good bye but it’s a quest,
A prayer to reach your mountain nest.
There is the world- cirrus and starry nights
I can escape for the time forever from tides-
That counts the time- to the unknown!
I can’t wait, till you come, till you come.

<>

11:03 Sun Sep 20 2020
2nd Day Rosh Hashana 5781
S.I., N.Y.

when I was twenty years younger, I wrote oft introspectively,
nowadays, today, provoked by the High Holy Day, the New Year,
it is my only filter, lens, and this solitary perspective that this moment affords, permits, demands, commands, insists on,  
prepared by this confession, so that I may better return to the union of my divine spark, unify body and soul, recover my true self,
by acknowledging that I am
not beholden to anyone,
therefore, thereby,
     beholden to everyone

how inconsistently wonderful that additional experience, alive in a time of upheavals, pushes me past the first stanza, where most often, my poems, prayers, go to rest uneasy, incomplete, only to be buried alive in me.

Yet, here I am stuttering, sputtering, words that come unexpectedly!
I have reached a second stanza, with the ending well sighted, nearby. The collective, overlaid wake of each passing boat, finger pointing, a road line for following, to a larger directive, a river emptying into a great ocean, birthplace & graveyard

premature celebration as it’s weeks till I return to this poem-in-progress on a bleak week, the winterized grays have dominated, the freshness of sunlight is just an occasional peekaboo.

The larger directive now suppressed, the pilings of damp brown leaves, multi-message; funeral. mounds of good days gone to hell, the inward perspective has returned me to a deep, dark place.

(Stutter, stutter, each day asseverates solemnly with tinges of rancor, no, no, no, still no answers yet, the second and third stanzas are *******, suns of no man.)

sun plays peekaboo
with the horizon
i am awake
my hip aches
age playing tag
no...no,  i have dinosaur hip when i reach down
to massage the place
i find a gift from my boy
a tiny tyranasaurous rex
has left a lasting imprint
i am branded by toy

now sitting at the table kitchen
i read the mornings joy.... and despair from the
world of poets. hello!
gathering myself
together
over early morning tea
i organize my tin soldiers and wind up my clocks mentally.
big game today
big game everyday
the season  is long,
have to finish out strong
be crowd pleasin
no bench warming allowed forward full throttle
life is playing on thru...
life is  coming on strong
life the game we play
til the game's all gone.

go team!!!!

Sounds like you
Sounds like your subconscious
Peekaboo
Masochistic
Melodic
Preternatural, true.
Your form is a construct
Consistently mistook
For a word that was given by another
Your mind is cloven
Intrinsically woven
For a thought that was a lover.

Sounds like you
Sounds like an allegoric
Stain glass shoe
Chopped-up slivers of ego goo
Like a small tin cymbal
Ring of truth.

Capitalizing on the cuts, Trench deep, hiding painful emotions as they seep. Playing peekaboo with blood that seems to trickle through veins, wishing only for it to course like the floodwaters of torrential rains. A noose tightly wrapped with imaginary hate, contemplating as a never blunted edge waits. Wanting only to release what cannot escape from inside, slowly deciding if it's worth it to.......try.

The sizzling sound of the radiator
Waked me up too soon
The cold breeze nibbles at my feet
like the unwanted houseguest

The sunlight come peekaboo to soon,
leaving the darkness behind yesterday sun
The New York cold weather frets me

The Island sunshine, calls out my name
Lying there with my compatriots
The cold and the non-sunshine

I have a long day ahead of me
I refused to be self-pity