I

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is
  nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessèd face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree
In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity
On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained
In the hollow round of my skull. And God said
Shall these bones live? shall these
Bones live? And that which had been contained
In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping:
Because of the goodness of this Lady
And because of her loveliness, and because
She honours the ****** in meditation,
We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled
Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love
To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd.
It is this which recovers
My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions
Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn
In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown.
Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness.
There is no life in them. As I am forgotten
And would be forgotten, so I would forget
Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said
Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only
The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping
With the burden of the grasshopper, saying

Lady of silences
Calm and distressed
Torn and most whole
Rose of memory
Rose of forgetfulness
Exhausted and life-giving
Worried reposeful
The single Rose
Is now the Garden
Where all loves end
Terminate torment
Of love unsatisfied
The greater torment
Of love satisfied
End of the endless
Journey to no end
Conclusion of all that
Is inconclusible
Speech without word and
Word of no speech
Grace to the Mother
For the Garden
Where all love ends.

Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining
We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other,
Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand,
Forgetting themselves and each other, united
In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye
Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity
Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III

At the first turning of the second stair
I turned and saw below
The same shape twisted on the banister
Under the vapour in the fetid air
Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears
The deceitul face of hope and of despair.

At the second turning of the second stair
I left them twisting, turning below;
There were no more faces and the stair was dark,
Damp, jaggèd, like an old man’s mouth drivelling, beyond repair,
Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark.

At the first turning of the third stair
Was a slotted window bellied like the figs’s fruit
And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene
The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green
Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute.
Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown,
Lilac and brown hair;
Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind
over the third stair,
Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair
Climbing the third stair.

Lord, I am not worthy
Lord, I am not worthy

                              but speak the word only.

IV

Who walked between the violet and the violet
Whe walked between
The various ranks of varied green
Going in white and blue, in Mary’s colour,
Talking of trivial things
In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour
Who moved among the others as they walked,
Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs

Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand
In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary’s colour,
Sovegna vos

Here are the years that walk between, bearing
Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring
One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing

White light folded, sheathing about her, folded.
The new years walk, restoring
Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring
With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem
The time. Redeem
The unread vision in the higher dream
While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse.

The silent sister veiled in white and blue
Between the yews, behind the garden god,
Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke
  no word

But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down
Redeem the time, redeem the dream
The token of the word unheard, unspoken

Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew

And after this our exile

V

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent
If the unheard, unspoken
Word is unspoken, unheard;
Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard,
The Word without a word, the Word within
The world and for the world;
And the light shone in darkness and
Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled
About the centre of the silent Word.

    O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Where shall the word be found, where will the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here
No place of grace for those who avoid the face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and
  deny the voice

Will the veiled sister pray for
Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,
Those who are torn on the horn between season and season,
  time and time, between
Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait
In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray
For children at the gate
Who will not go away and cannot pray:
Pray for those who chose and oppose

    O my people, what have I done unto thee.

Will the veiled sister between the slender
Yew trees pray for those who offend her
And are terrified and cannot surrender
And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks
In the last desert before the last blue rocks
The desert in the garden the garden in the desert
Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed.

    O my people.

VI

Although I do not hope to turn again
Although I do not hope
Although I do not hope to turn

Wavering between the profit and the loss
In this brief transit where the dreams cross
The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying
(Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things
From the wide window towards the granite shore
The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying
Unbroken wings

And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices
In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices
And the weak spirit quickens to rebel
For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell
Quickens to recover
The cry of quail and the whirling plover
And the blind eye creates
The empty forms between the ivory gates
And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth

This is the time of tension between dying and birth
The place of solitude where three dreams cross
Between blue rocks
But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away
Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit
  of the garden,
Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

I would that I could clasp hands, at once, with every diasporic man
And our hands could merge and rise up as a single fist
And all the subjective shades of our own colors and the
Daze of our own druthers would be shed in the process
Yes, I find that I absorb the pain around me like a fine osmosis
That unifies the minds forged in our generation’s social suffering
And I wish my skin would grow akin and reflect a synthesis
Because there is no bliss when men bisect people into “us” and “them”

I would that I could turn my insides out and transform my ***
Organs, as a moth does surge inside a closeted cocoon
Only to emerge with wings and the power of new found flight
And I wonder if I too could sing the perspective of new heights
Because there is only ******* in a world where those who
Share the same ****** shape cannot share the same heart
Are condemned to be kept apart by taboos viewed through institution
Started by confused men, afraid to admit that making love is a free art

I would that I could push my hand into the ground and grow
Roots that drive deep, past the sand, beyond the rending flesh
Of our loved ones’ bodies and mesh with the immortal earth
As if I could bolster, with my chemical composite, the site of true birth
Because when the mightiest of the world’s glories can be
Bought and sold for the price of arbitrary ******* figures
Written in the blood of forests, in the torn face of mountains
Then we can stop ignoring the forlorn thought of dark days before us

I would that I could bring back all those lost before their time
That a rhyme could sting the cold cheeks of slaves who never
Saw a western sunrise comprised of multicolor, of many brothers
That I could brush softly the minds of couples buried not together
And scream to them that time left some bereft of victories
Yet to shape their scene, yet to substantiate their dreams

Then I would quickly reseal the doors of slumber that guard
The restless dreamers of the past before revealing the
Horrors of societies stepping once forward, then twice back
Yes, before the haunting words of hateful choruses should
Ever shape their reposeful, moral-less, and peaceful sleep
For the hopeful eyes of soulful passing activists should never weep.

A feeling
so ecstatic
so joyful
so memorable
and nostalgic.
A reposeful warmth,
draped like a blanket,
ove the slick black ice,  
encrusted on my soul.
A Polarity
unstable.
The sun might be yanked from my face
at
any
second.

I watch the way he walks past me down the narrow hallway, pretending not to notice my existence.
I watch the way he looks at me suddenly with his large, dark, brown eyes, but quickly looks away, so that I will not see.
I watch when he laughs, and his smile slowly fades back to a serious, more reposeful look.
I watch when he is struggling to focus on his work, and clearly has something else consuming his mind.
I watch the way he listens thoroughly and inquisitively when someone talks about something he loves.
I watch the way he pretends not to care, when he most certainly cares a whole lot more than most would think.
I watch the way he fools everyone-that is, everyone except me.

-m.a.

I delight in listening to the wind.
It’s so content and subtle, yet, so destructive.
Much like love, the way it slowly strings us along with bad intentions.
So reposeful we fall for each other and so maleficently we fall apart.
Too often we love things that aren’t any good for us.
We let emotions manipulate us.
Victimizing us into an impractical mindset,
Where we are convinced that love is permanent and nothing hurts.
But, love is a bizarre thing, much like the wind.
They both exist to eventually tear things apart,
Whether being our homes or our hearts.

There is hope in sadness
Because honesty
And not falsehood
Along with true emotion
Opens its door to comfort you
Because it will receive you
And offer its blessings
To mingle with your own
On a winding road
Of love
You see my daughter
And her smile for my heart
In this I know
The hope that we long for
Is sprouting in the next generation
As we who have lived
And search for our youth
And for something new
Remain in reposeful wait
To live on
In the knowing
Of where we have been
And where we will go
But for me
It is the very feeling of loss
That offers dignity
And quiet assurance
That regardless of my tears
Life will go on
And a little girl
Will be the one who will make you happy
So take her hand
And look past my troubles
And see yourself through her eyes
As she asks you
To show her what you know
And what you love

Sub Title: This connotation for my inner construction occurring inside!

Gravy, weighty and salient seasons of my book were crinkled, blended into the vast expanse of reflective tones and the disposition of melodies. Its resulting picture appeared unclouded and had the comprehensive idea of yenning, which was trying to settle in!

In compliance with the process of its preparedness, I tried to learn and memorize the outlook of your tending silence. The mounting serene of its stilling effect mirrored the appearance of vivid flowers, those clasped to your hands and luckily permeating their conformable scent.

O prettifying silence and the causative quickener behind it,
I want the remnant of my voice to occupy your attention by posing a simple question. Is it hard to hold the flowers with your hands? Do I hurt you with its sharp-pointed edges?

Sad, in this reposeful composition. I pricked you.
©️shivpoetesspriya

I hear the unfiltered tune of birds from somewhere among the trees.
Unaware that I watch them with my pen
they keep singing.

The lone generator,
where the towering evergreens used to be,
emits a soft baritone hum.
It's loudest on the days when the sun is brightest
as if mourning the loss of that reposeful shade.

So I try to write some shade...

and the tip of my ball point rolls me back in memory
to that stubborn 'NO BALL GAMES' sign
that would try persistently to deter our playfulness
but instead
made childish rebellion so much sweeter.

The low gravelly glide of pen to paper stops
as if the words have been delivered to their destination.
And my senses come to a standstill
to check which memory they may have accidentally dropped
along the way.

...then they remember

and my nostrils welcome the scent of Mum's cooking,
which flows inwards and floats downwards
where it branches out in my chest
and gently pulls my heart into an innocent grin,
that sometimes I forget,
but Mum and Dad never will.

my assassin hisses from behind his curtain
there's nobody here
with a stand up comic's grin
so he turned to practical jokes
got the gods tumbling spire over minaret
suffering a vigorously impious scorn
the pit bull lobby eventually had him banned
for making life into a pastoral meadow
but reposeful bliss eluded him
instead an agitated bliss on all his channels
being it was a game of hobbled feet
marrying truth to insanity
and created a race of juggling pundits
ringing like temple gongs
inherently bourgeois anarchist epicureans
wanting what is best is not always pretty
but nothing padded his gaze
observe the scale and the detail
the ruling class toiling all night
gave us minds and wills and forgetfulness
arise from the dead said the angel Mr. Blinky
kiss my sassafras *** said Billy Nitro
Scamper his Mongolian chihuahua
barking and snapping in emphasis
the times of laughter are over
he decanted in all silliness
so **** it laugh anyway
this is a limited time offer
you've read this you can't unread it
but what choice did I have
chronically coming up empty handed
flapping in the wind and no ******
vast and complex was Blinky's hypothermia
from deep within the Putumayo
a million chimeras cried for blood
the lava flowed round Pele's feet
upscale and chic descended to shopping cart
as the armless Venus glided towards him
fresh from a dump in a highway pay toilet
all love and germs in a clueless crescendo
freed him from omen slavery
Pol Potted the world of its many *******
Venus pulled him close
her hot breath made his hairs dance
she exhaled softly
you don't have to scream
to keep yourself awake
she could read a phoneme
like the moon in the river
as they pronounced us man and woman
their chief hipster said crazy man crazy
you are a freak like us
act accordingly

From "Pageant of Naked Mischief" available on Amazon

I spend my nights thinking about you, beautiful,
Your ***** is ecstatic, your dreams are blissful,
My heart keeps on craving for a glimpse of your smile,
Your lips become a rose when they go poutful,
Life seems so simple when you are around,
It's resilient in real but with you it's cheerful,
Your cheeks make me feel euphoric,
Those are priceless and naturally blushful,
I don't know if it happens with you as well or not,
But the voice of you breathing is quite reposeful,
When you put your hand on your eyes and face on your pillow,
That view is so soothing and your expressions are delightful,
Then you put a finger at lips with a view of your teeth,
It seems a hell of seductive but it's still a bit bashful,
You are too perfect for a human being,
Your soul is rapturous, your body is dreamful,
My only dream is to see you free of all problems,
But for your love for myself, I'm still wishful,
It makes you feel sleepy and cheery at the same time,
Our facetime is funny as well as soulful,
Not having you in my arms is quite painful,
But I'm sure it'll be temporary coz I'm still willful,
Me being in your arms and kissing your lips with passion,
And my arms holding you tight, I hope I'm that much fateful..