She is a succulent bunch,let me be helpful,
if you don't get the complex chemical scent,
I call her ,"a girl of unpredictable
meeting places"inotropic, is her effect,
She sends heartbeats way up.
Delectable too, she was, every time
I tasted certain parts of her.
Her avatars are numerous, like Hindu Gods
With specific  intention for each incarnation
Onee will be pushed in to neurosis,
if doesn't completely relish her infinite variety.
She is a cryptic mystic,
for a while  from signals
I discerned and firmly believed
Or is she just a  creature mysterious
Doubt raises it's head, like a lotus
From slushy pond
My eyes met her at the level of  her eyes first,
the rest in a haze to me was invisible,
Then my heart sends a message
"Right now, I missed a beat here"
Heart then recites a poem,
tells me, it is all her making
"Don't fall in love" heart's advice,
"Go, dissolve in her completely"
Even my own heart has crossed sides,
or is it truly an advice for my sake?
Love is a hallucinogen, get it?
she whistles like wind at bamboo groves
from within sings like a thrush,
she is a magpie, or is she a koel?
Nocturnal animal, in need of mating,
making calls, frantic SMS, incessant.
She is wind and water, elements
that make one burn and drown
She spreads her yoga mat on the floor,
asks me to sit cross legged Indian style,
I am already for that in my mind,
So I spread eagle in corpse pose, indicating, "All through my life", mother earth gives me warmth.
          Shanti,   Shanti,   shanti

Middle aged dancing moon, rising sun coming of age poem
Some times you shave your legs sometimes you wax
You are a river of gold, a poetry goddess
You are the definition of ****, **** and cool lady
Your skin a tan wonder, Aphrodite will envy with her immortal soul
Not just another girl
Woman, woman, woman
Your lion like mane blowing over purple mountain tops
Imagine a world without.
Your Litheness invokes the green eyed monster in the gods
Not just another girl
Om shanti shanti

Peace in the echo
The echo of love
Protect us like the hope of Zion

Walk in the echo
The echo of past
Learn from mistakes -
Insanity is doing the same
Over and over
Expecting different results

They say war
Brings about peace

Insanity
Yeah - them suits insane

Jah over all,
What must be will be
All temples fall
And with them bring peace

Peace in the echo
The echo of love
Protect us like the warmth of Sun

Govern yourself
Don't give in
Keep your will
Protect yourself
From their sin
Stand up still
Release yourself
To within
Keep your will

The day of revelation
Shines like supernova
Stardust in color
A reflection of Star

On the rocks of discarded dust
Lands life of decay and rust
Without death,
There'd be no life
And thus, the wilt is no bust

Balance

For each day, a night
For each night, a day

To keep order within chaos
Listening to each wind blowing
Will reveal and lead the communication

iHonor the history of my ancestors
And their ***** love songs: Nyabinghi
Crossing the Atlantic  with their creative minds
Rooted into their backbones was creative; Black men and women of today
A generation of;  
Bobo Shanti!
Baganda
Niger Congo
Sierra Leone
Bushmen
Kings and Queens of Africa

iHonor my history
But, my history is in Him
The King of Kings

Dreams hanging on a tree!
Kings and Queens hanging form a  rope nailed to a tree!
They were auctioned off a d sold in corner stores like Bodegas!
Please don’t forget about your ancestors when you speak about History!
He was rejected in the time of earthly kings and Queens
He was rejected in the time of Exodus
He was rejected in the time of redemption songs/ Babylon!

He was rejected at birth
He was rejected for calling Himself
"I am thee I am"
His purpose killed Him
He was rejected, but his purpose lives.

iHonor the King of Kings for being the sacrificial lamb of all Mortars
iHonor Him

Some kings rule their kingdoms surrounded by luxury
this king held a Bible in his hand
stood tall before Nations
with a single dream!
No luxuries!

This king was rejected!
He was shot!
Here comes the dream killers
A voice of a black Panther cried
“what their; guns, bats & smoke bums”
Have mothers clenching their young's
Running down to avenues unknown
To street that are paved with hopeless dreams and  goals

Because of  Dr. Martin Luther King and His Dream
Mothers were crying, digging graves with their finger nails.
Bering their dreams and aspiration into graves!
grave yards became over populated
With creative minds and dreams!

iHonor  Dr Martin Luther King Jr, for dreaming & believing
That whites & blacks will  become  one Nation under the King of Kings
iHonor Him

To my generation and to generation to come,
Where is creativity today!
Creativity was lost, unable to find!
So different things start to shape the mind
Creativity is something we watch on TV
Creativity has become an illusion
what a poor substitution

The mind is a beautiful thing to waste!
Creativity is in the wave pool of our minds
Mothers read to your young  from the womb
Bring creativity and dreams back to life

Doctor Seuss was creating a world of creativity in the minds of our  generation!
I think I can, I think I can was another book that brought creativity to life!

If a Cat can wear a hat
A fox can wear  socks
A boy by the name of Sam I Am, love green eggs and ham!
He can eat it in a box, with a fox!
In a house with a mouse!
With a goat on a boat!
So, who are you to tell me I'm not a "who"
Doctor Seuss created the Who's and the Who Ville!
Therefore I am a Who!
Who are you!

iHonor black mothers and fathers for being
present and never absent/ for being super heroes of monsters in closets.

iHonor my black people for uniting together from the 1960's to 2013
iHonor Mrs. King
iHonor Dr. Martin Luther King
iHonor the King of kings
iHonor all those individuals that made it possible for us to vote today
iHonor you all!
iHonor!

16 Million
16 million babies each year are engineered by teen mothers
But lets look a little smaller
273,105
Girls who annually contrive babies to life in the United States
But lets divide that number down further
35,249
Adolescent girls whose lives become defined by a child in the state of California alone
But once more lets focus in even smaller
1.
One Athena Young.
Standing slightly over 5 feet tall, with chocolate kissed skin shelling her strong build and a wide white smile full of joyous laughter that covers convincingly that which you would only know if you asked her: that she is a teen mother whose heart and soul has sufficiently suffered.

Perhaps from birth she didn’t stand a chance
Pushed out of the womb to a path of dissonance between success and endurance
A low class family whose glance rests not on her best advance but on their personal pleasure
So on they prance leaving her alone at night to fend for her own life.
And as she navigates this path she is stopped in a trance of seemingly endless romance
That swept her up into a dance that waltzed whimsically one night to her bedroom where she let this boy advance into her pants.
And that once seemingly endless romance crash lands as he implants into her the blow that log jams her path of success and sling shots her to side of endurance.
Fraught and distraught because she was never taught how to not by the people who brought her into the world
Or maybe to spite the strife they have placed in her life because as words from her sorrowed soul said “its when you don’t care about disappointing someone that bad things happen”…
And happen they did as we bid goodbye to the boy who didn’t try to be a father to his joy and pride or a husband to a bride
But instead strode out of sight with a gun at his side to a land that didn’t care whether he lived or he died because he refused to stay true to the girl tangled in his tango.
Left her glued to a growing womb
A single struggling parent, seclusion and confusion in raising a brilliant baby girl in this wicked world she had not yet navigated herself.
And grades started to drop as her life was dragged and dropped to 4 different spots within 3 sun cycle slots.
She said if only they had known that chaos that was going on at home
And the baby that was growing then they could have shown her grace and love…
But they would soon know and throw her out with doubt that she could complete courses while her veins coursed with blood to flood nutrients to nourish her new fetus.
Alone.
No comfortable home.
A lack of understanding left her with no friends to call her own.
No potential for preferential favor on this jagged darkening path too well known.
Abandoned
When suddenly a light landed and handed her a second chance to better advance
To move past her heart-break romance
Her families abstinence,
Her friends distance,
Her schools disinterest.
What was this glorious light?
The alternative high school Mark Twain,
Provided shelter in the acid rain of isolation and pain,
Tamed the sinister storm that reigned and splayed her life into disarray.
For Shanti, a beautifully big-eyed bubbly baby,
Twain gave certain shelter and care from an elder so health could bury deep and fester while her mother, her positive protector, could center on gaining a degree that in theory will better their cumulative future.

But perhaps the hill to highlight is the hunk of hamlet handed to her.
A gallant group of life-giving girls, warrior women who baked and bore and breathed life into children.
Allowing her alienating anomie to be history by fulfilling her need for meaningful community. People who can share relating stories of baby daddy drama, family problems, baby progress. They understood and gave value to a valiant victor whose violent world had previously brought her bitter.
There was room to be a mother,
And room to be just another teenager
A people that taught her to lead her daughter to grow up with honor of her soul’s armor so the similar story would not cycler any further.
And her giving advice to her fellow friends raising soon to be men to avoid the vice she strides against, to teach their boys “to not leave the girl”, striving and fighting to brighten the bleak world that they are no longer merely surviving but thriving in with the aid of the high school who looks past the “normal” and “socially acceptable” and to the broken and vulnerable.
Now she sits.
Waiting.
Anticipating.
The degree her hands will soon hold.
The college campus her calloused feet will soon conquer.
Seeing her dreams of being a military general driving down the street towards reality
Thanks to the inspiring community.

So 1.
One Athena Young.
One out of 16 million moms
Whose once overcast life has forever been spun to the ever-brightening sun
By a school that showed her love and
By friendships that fought to rise above.

Saying good bye ant an easy thing to do
Especially saying good bye to you
I thank you my friends for this time spent
I thank you for being you

I spread my wings and fly away and head into the sun
Letting the wind take me on its way
Soaring down this crystal mountain with a soul fulled
With love peace and harmony

Follow your hearts dear
Follow your light to where your soul shines bright
Allow yourself to see your essence
You are one of life's true gifts

So I Spread my wings and fly away  
and dip into the wind
mother earth guiding my way
Where ever I am know my friend
You can always come and stay

Heading in the direction of my souls calling
Feeling fear within
The age old game the ego likes to play
This time it won't win
Ive got more tools in my kiti
More love than ever before
Know that I'll carry you with me
As i turn and head out the door

So I spread my wings and float away
Allowing myself to be
The full expression of my inner light
The great gift you could have given me
This freedom to be me

Where I'll go no one knows
Now It's time to fly away
Where I'll go no one knows
Now It's time to fly away

Anahata
I wish you peace
Shanti shanti shanti

Uhrde' eahai’ el.

EaShe'sheti... EaShe'sheti Eye...
I're...
Selah... Selase'eye'...
Esh'real...
Esh'uriel... Eshurd-ay-I...
Jamowhe'... Ashanti E'yai...
Ashanti Ashanti Ashanti I...
This daylight does not live in a box of dreams. Selam Malen Kaye'm.
For surely the angel of light worships the dream.
Sela amo' I....
Ashanti I.
The color of feather.
Selah.
In truth (light) of light…
darkness falls.
Crimena is not committed until pentance is revealed.
The spirit of Peter (Pentecost) weighs the salvation of Selah.
Selahse' 'I"  
Our King worships life
work for substance at the tree of life.
Shanti Lyre'…  Ashanti Lyre’
A shanti... 'I'
The Prayer of Shame...
Our Change.
Azhasurea 'I'
Azhasuras.
For the measure of man has not chalice; the chaste' is not measured in another eye.
It is the spy Gabriel in the urn of the grail.
Uriel…
Gabriel…
Michiael…
Samiael…
Matisyaweih… Ehyre’
Eshre’I el… Eshurdae'i…
Danae'l… Eshurdae'i el
Selah Sela' se' amare' ah.
Amen.
There are two at two chali'. There are two at two chalices. Chali. Cali'. Californiael. The me'rcha'nt of war is walking backward out of the grail for chalice.
Shall I. Make Michiael a sword.
Or shall I make Michiael.
Ashanti I.
Amen.
California= Caliphas. Chi'el.
Ashure'Ire'.
My sword.
The earth found underneath the Prophet Daniel.

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG BOY

Tom is 9
going on 10

& pens
" a few little verses

about the sadness
of having to

start school
again

every Monday morning."

Already young
Master Eliot

can see
THE WASTELAND

spreading out
before him.

"Monday is the cruellest day
breeding Mathematics

out of the deadened brain!"

"****...**** it...**** ya!"

"Language Thomas...language!"

"Shhhhh ...Tom...shushhhh!"
I comfort him.

"Shanti...shanti...shanti."

andheri thi jo raat wo,
us raat ki kya baat kahun.
jis raat se wo mila nahin,
us raat ki kya subah kahun.

har raat ki h subah mgr,
us raat ki bhi subah hui.
charcha hui to khabar mili,
us shaqs ki toh maut hui.

shaqs to tha wo dost mera,
us shaqs ki kya baat karun.
ladka tha wo bigda magar,
uske dil ki kya taarief karun.
  
maut nahi thi tha wo khoon,
un kaatilon ki kya baat karun.
jese tadpaya un sbko,
Isse bhattar maut unko m ada krun.

galti kya thi un maasumo ki,
jo aisi bhynkr maut mili.
khuda tu hi jawab dega,
kynki tune thi wo maut likhi.

sbko jisne khush tha rkha,
uski shanti k m dua krun.
Yaad rkhnge use hmesha,
uski yaadon ki kya baat karun.

@riya

"What do you do?"

"I create shelters for peace. Places you can go to when you have no where to go. I buy shacks in the desert."

He nodded, looked to his friend. Their social class hung on their East coast shoulders as they lifted a paid for beer up to their pampered lips.
  
I said, "If it is not something you need, it has no value to you. Much like a Bonsai or Christ."

I felt secure, knowing they couldn't grasp the feeling of being lost in a Western desert.

Crude handling. The matter,
The substance. Pain is same. Things
are slipping out of hands.

You are walking away.
To defer your sympathy, love boils.
Right spellings have wrong words.

You put the tears back
in your eyes. Drifting aimlessly. Your
existence was for carnivores.

Shingle shook,
these bookish handles
cove your head in herringbone,

It's sewn into
our standard-issue,

dangled under spinnaker

Here,
you and I
will come to terms
the terms of our endearment


a curvature of earthliness,
in miniature exemplified

the surfeit of our inadvertent
vertebrae declined
toward

the wave

కొల్లికే  రానీ  గొడవే  నాది  కొంటె  గానే  నన్ను  చేరింది  పోటి  ప­డే  పంతం  ఇది
. . కోట్లల్లో  నే  మునిగిన  కాసు  బుసు  లాడి  నన్ను   katestadi . .
****** లేని  కదా  లాగా  నన్ను  చివరాకరి  దాకా  తరుముతుంది . .
వెంటాడే  నాగిని  లా  ఆణువణువూ  బుస  కొడుతుందే . .
గతలనే  తవ్వాల . . నా గోడు  అందరికి  వినిపించాల . . .
Kuch kuch hota hai అనుకోవాలా . .
Kaho na pyar hai అని  వెతకాల . .
.phir phir milenge milenge అంటూ  కాలవల . .
Chelta cheltha అంటూ  చేరాల .  .
Koyi mil gaya అంటూ  ఏదో  పొందాల . . .
dil  vale  dhulhania  lejay  అంటూ దిల్లును లేపుకు పోవాలా. .
ledha om shanti om అంటూ శాంతం  గా   ఉండిపోవాలా

Meditation does not mean to escape, but to
come closer. Praying does not mean to speak,
but to listen. Praying is meditation.

In meditation you seek to allow peace to
penetrate, to show itself, you seek truth.

There is no knowledge in truth.  Understanding
means to throw away your knowledge.

When you regain truth, you find peace.  When
you are at peace, you are mindful, compassion
flourishes freely, you start to smile, and you
fall in love, with everything.

Compassion is a verb, love is freedom, and
truth is to be yourself.

Satya, shanti, prajna, karuna, ananda, prema
is the order to parinibbana.

Om shanti tra-la-lace,
empty head fulla space.

Mismatched mouth and mind,
squawking every word ya find.

Buncha penny-sized pupils --
spun-out "gypsies" popping pills.

When ya finally say what ya mean,
I'll be where I was with no in between.

Om shanti tra-la-lo
pack yer patchouli and go.

This body is to narrow to start the concrete picturesque poetry

As a marvelous bright sparkling spring into the pitch black marvel stone
My poems are shallow water running out of time climbing backwards

Shanti dances, Shakti watches, I ride the glossy magenta mountain byke Elementally through the potentially ***** city, gulping two little
              flying                            spoons          ­            wwhhpp          mhm                                  ­    
                       of
Brilliant        IO Ag
                   Helth guarantieed on the nulth spelling positive not
Obtrusive politely declined           skipped          suggestive
Visually objective little pencil box down bellow
                                             friend    _ this is blank !

Absolutely! Absoulutely! A ****** stream of no perservatives no ***

Objecting flowery flunder opiates                           Words grow from
Barriers between insufficient gestures                  from human
Jazzy left ear leaving laments of sounds incapability to stay
Endlessly entwined and glued together as your soul loves
Tender tactile cats touch on your desperate desert sju++
                  Ave Gratias Plena Ava Gardner Avon Avion
  My throat is not of a managment made suits suiting suitcases
I'm Tired Of Fraternities Or True Females  Always  Ends  Well

Lean on my chest, gentle one, let's sit holding hands,
mountain breeze whispers Shanti mantras, let's repeat it,
may tranquil be our souls, we aren't weary yet, but the ardor
of the climb ends here; from this vintage point we are,
distant heaven and beloved earth, look deceptively equidistant,
rest your eyes on mine, let me see eternity flashing it's light.

Don't even say a word, what your heart beat says is to my heart,
the view from this peak is what we dreamt always,remember?
an incredible leap of the souls, now we feel, is the reward of  the trek
we are equanimous, yet the  tears in your doe eyes, I can't bear,
we are mortals, pain is a mongrel, our faithful companion to the end.

Let's sit here, till the gold dust, the passing sun extravagantly sprinkles,
that tells stories of galaxies dying down and new ones taking birth-
finally settles, and the anesthetic of darkness gently descends.

Look! the hidden envious eyes of the night, from afar peep at us,
on the journey back, we'll fly beyond limits and vanquish the big dark.

He buried me amongst the dead
kicked the dust off his boots
left the house in it's peace
wandered in to the next open door
to spread the word.

Now I am buried,
being buried by the dead
You being the dead.

Do we love ourselves
more than God? (Call him/God Christ if you want to.
God is enough for me
with how a name gets thrown around
by those who defile the name
with abuses of their own design. Christ becomes in vain)

Are mystics justified, by their closeness to the divine,
their missions in life to show us God,
to rebuke us in each of their own given manner,
harsh or light as it might strike,
no matter the tear at our inner light they saw as dark.

"We use God's mighty weapons, not worldly weapons, to knock down the strongholds of human reasoning and to destroy false arguments." says the bible.

Who was arguing, asks I?

Om Shanti is Sanskrit for peace for the all human kind, peace for all living and non living beings, peace for the universe, peace for each and every things in this whole cosmic manifestation.

"Am I a non-believer for using a Hindu language, Mr. Mystic?" I ask.

Is God that absent from my inner mind?

Don’t stand for too long
Or even wiggle
Because that's exercise
And exercising is a behavior
Unless it’s time for the daily walk;
Then you must go
Even if it hurts and you feel like a dog
On an invisible leash.
Never spend too much time alone
In a room away from the people you barely know
With whom you are stuck all day and night and
Forced to share toilets and
Puked-in shower drains and
Cramped kitchen counters and
Painful secrets you wouldn’t even tell your mother.
Precious heartbeats spent alone
Are called isolating and they are bad.

A smear of avocado hastily forgotten on a butter knife
Raises suspicion and a quarter teaspoon more must be replaced.
But heaven help you
If you pour a milliliter too much orange juice.
This is disordered behavior
And the few offending drops must be poured out.
Time will teach you
That wholesome rosy-faced girls much younger than you are
Holding clipboards with your life on them
Will treat you like a child
And disregard your hard-earned quarter-century
As a fish disregards an airplane.
Black tea past three o’clock is criminal;
It must be eschewed
Lest the minuscule amount of caffeine
Affect your sleep eight hours before bedtime
And override the Seroquel and the Ambien and the lithium.

And don’t you ever shut the door or flush the toilet
‘Til they’ve come in
To ogle your **** and ****
And when you’ve finally proven yourself trustworthy enough
To shut the door and flush
Never stay in for more than three minutes,
Even when taking a dump.
You will be suspected of purging
And you will be grilled like that eggplant you didn’t taste
Until you beg them to take your blood and say
Please please check the electrolytes and the pH
And I will even *** in a cup!
I don’t care! I just need you to know
I’m telling the truth.
And never say you feel sick to your stomach
Especially when it’s true.
That’s just an excuse people like us use
When we want to yodel to God
On the big white telephone.

Thirty seconds stolen in your room
To brush unruly hair is forbidden
Unless your waist-length hair
Is nearing dreadlock status
Because you might be Up To Something in there.
You can say **** but not fat
Unless you are justifying a tablespoon
Of Catalina dressing
To the Food Police.
You can’t have a hand mirror because
You might smash it and hurt yourself
But you will be surrounded
With lovely, breakable little picture frames
Full of inspirational quotes.

If you’re upset at dinner
It’s called anxiety.
If your heart hurts and skips beats
From years of puking your guts up every day,
It’s called anxiety.
If you need your space
It’s called anxiety.
If you can’t meditate
And you get so bored that
You let a juicy pregnant wolf spider crawl
Over your hand and arm seventeen times
And instead of OM SHANTI OM your inward chant
Is I Am The Walrus
It’s anxiety.
If you tell them you’re not anxious
It’s anxiety.

You can’t have your wallet
And your phone at the same time
So you’re less likely to run away
But they never check to see
Where your debit card and ID went off to
When you trade in your wallet for your phone.
They never notice the triumphant curve on your lips
Nor the slight stiff rectangle
In the breast pocket of the flannel shirt
That is perpetually around your waist.
You will keep these with you
All day and all night
In case someone drives the final corkscrew
Into your ear and you must vamoose
Before you find yourself
Floating white-knuckled in a deluge of blood
Grasping a cheese grater
Surrounded by seeping lumps of people meat.

But this house models the real world.
You are sick and you have no idea
What’s best for you.
After three weeks they know
Exactly how you work
And if you don’t agree with that
You are wrong.
You will relapse one day.
If you don’t agree with that,
You’re wrong and you will die
Because you can never quit cold turkey with food.

You must learn to enjoy the food
That you fight and claw and scramble to make,
To enjoy each perfectly metered tablespoon
Of peanut butter,
To delight in hastily and stressfully prepared dishes
Upon which you are terrified to put condiments
For fear of being told the selection is inappropriate,
To relish weak iced tea with no ice because
Someone took it all and never filled the tray,
Sparingly seasoned with two Splendas,
Carefully handed out and locked away by the keyholders,
Never sweet enough,
Never ever sweet enough,
The real sugar of real life replaced by
Bitter ******* brandied with the saccharine syrup of so-called safety.

Blazing sun
Moderate winds
70-80% humidity
Cracked roads
Racked foot paths
Scattered waste
Rising smoke
Pile of bricks in corner

Group of 4 children
Not older than 10
Running and shouting
With all laughs and giggles
On behind another
Carrying a white sack

Crossed the drenched children
In white shirt and blue pant
Soaked in sweat
Like they are carrying the world
On their back

one of the child
In check grey shirt
Looked at them
As he moved across
In back seat of benz
With ice-cream in one of the hand

18-20 year looking  guy
Smoking ciggerate at one end
With eyes Hooked to moving benz
Surrounded with his gang

As the aunty from across
Drying her dress
Mumbling,ahhh
What a cheap ***

Mason passing by her house
carrying
Basket on his head
And shouting
To mark his presence

A girl wearing heals
With a mid thigh and deep neck dress
Crosses a pool of water and mud
Worrying about all the effort
She made to look her best

Every man on road
Eyes struck to her pose
Thinking what a *****
Can’t she wear some more

A group of 4 may be 6
In mid 40’s to 50’s
Sipping their tea
While judging every thing they see
Discussing how its better &
How its worse ,for sharma’s son
Ignoring their own worse

Bells ringing
Azan singing
Ik Onkar ecoing
Horns honking
Dogs barking
People shouting
Life’s running

A sadhu sits aside
And Ignites
Now With glassy eyes
Grasped all this mundane life
Mumble’s these miserable lives
Om shanti Om shanti Om shanti!!

A guy, on top
Watching this all
And gasps
Wow
What a crazy life

And writer’s write
Welcome to street, Called
LIFE!!!

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST AS A YOUNG BOY

Tom is 9
going on
10

& pens
" a few little verses
about the sadness

of having to
start school again
every Monday morning."

already young
Master Eliot can see
THE WASTELAND

spreading
out
before him

"Monday is the cruellest day
breeding Mathematics
out of the deadened brain!"

"****...**** it...**** ya!"
"Language Thomas...language!"

"Shhhhh ...Tom...shushhhh!"
I comfort him.
"Shanti...shanti...shanti."

*

Valerie Eliot tells this tale of Tom when asked when he started writing and if there was anything left of such early efforts. This little bric-a-brac of emotion from Eliot's early early youth showed that the child was indeed the father of the man!

Reading INVENTIONS OF THE MAD HARE...showing Eliot's early work in its raw notebook state was a real delight for an Eliotian like me! Valerie's little reflection on Tom's early efforts always amused me and I could imagine him then being of the same demeanour as the Tom of the Waste Land.

The poem is a way of giving the little fella a hug 'cos I felt the same way myself about schools and Maths and Monday morning.

Hand write
                   ( Hands right
                                  Sinistral kid)
Me a love poem.
                   (A sonnet?
                             Whatever)
Make me feel like a queen,
                   (Like Joanna of Castile?
                              I know who she is, you ****)
Like I am worshipped and adored.
                   (Like Imelda Marcos then?
                              I have more shoes)
Make my heart flutter
                   (Arrhythmia
                              Whatever)
And swell until it bursts.
                   (Be careful what you wish for
                               ......................)
Treat me like a princess
                   (Shanti Rajya Lakshmi Devi
                               I've Googled her as well)
And make all my dreams come true.
                   (I dream of a loaded gun.
                              So you can **** me?)

"No, just myself.

All I want is for you to ******* feel something".

What seems important?  Now is not
The time nor here the place of sand--
Annealed, reconstituted thought--
Neck high, yet claiming one free hand,
Spent youth a mandala released
In ardent love songs and defeats,
Old sorrows that have scant decreased,
Poured out in lines with bagua beats.
Your frame and mine, the scarred remains,
Fragmented, somehow holding on,
Against the new, the older pains,
The resevoir turned now to stone.
Shanti, shanti, shanti my love,
Do not look back, don't glare above.