Rhythm is found everwhere,
About us in nature,
And in life:
The beat of a heart,
The tick of the clock,
The rain pattering
On the roof,
The left-right
Of marching soldiers,
The one-two or
One-two-three of music
And dancing,
The ta-***, ta-***, ta-***-tum-tum
Of the drum,
The tolling of a church bell,
The clang of a fire bell,
The moaning of the wind
In the trees,
The rise and fall of waves,
The ebb and flow of tides,
The accented,
The unaccented.
All add a chorus
To the music
Of poetry.

He dives into the night and tastes the colours of darkness;
He remains in disguise of the web of darkness,
Like a black spider, star burst horn baboon spider.
Grounded by the white stringed haphazard web of darkness
And he made darkness his covert, his pavilion round about him.
Dark waters in the clouds of the womb bearing seeds for the nation
Darkens and further occludes his opalescence into black and what?
He searches for the diversity of the rainbow with an iambic meter.


A biased accented and unaccented mirage of nations…
An optically dark-phobic illuminated biased meter
Synergism of nations is a phantasm meter display.
The hope of sanctuary proves hallucination by darkness.
Darkness is the absence of light, but light is light.
In his darkness he ponders

i klump in mod galoshes
among the enigma of raindrops
and catch metaphors
on the tip of my tongue.

Swallow into my soul
the beautiful unaccented verbiage.
as fragments of poems
wash down from the sky
in streams of kaleidoscopic complications.

As i tromp in puddles of letters
as i run down the wet serendipitous streets
of visionary realms...

Griffens hide under the umbrales
of trees glowering for they do
not like to be pelted
with the symbologies of deluges.

This make griffons mystifying
glowing leaves flutter chanting,
and skinny dip in the trellises of rain drops.
And at the end of all spelling.

i romp among the rays of the rainbows
that spring down the corridors of clouds
as unnamed poems stir & grow
up into the  clouds
and wait for the storm of creativity
to begin again in a paper sky.
and wait for the storms
of creativity to begin
and dispense  gems
to hide in heads
of uncanny eerie children
that greetings
fold space into verses

Do you ever look back on your old work
And cringe?
Do you see the flowery attempts at depth
And quickly brush the pages away?
Do you feel from reading it the purpose with which you wrote it,
Or are you overwhelmed with 'how silly is sounds'?
The whole point of poetry in sound,
But if we cannot convey our intent in the framework
Do we risk falling into pop poetry?
Or is the framework a cage?
Five beat, seven, five
Accented, Unaccented
A title?
Dear God, only so many can go unnamed
Without driving us mad.

Rip out the pages?
Burn them?
Catharsis for not just a moment,
But days
Weeks
Maybe months.
But not forever.
One day, we will wonder-
Images dance in flashes through our minds
That word we hear
That smell
The way the rain falls through the leaves
Or light glints off leather book covers-
And not remember.
It will flit around our minds
Teasing, torturing
But we will never catch it
Because we will never be who we were.