there the bend is
the crook of the creek
the neck of the crane craning up
leg deep
fallen cypress's
their stumps jutting out
above the currents
and the moss clinging to
everything
where men go
at night to
jump in
where the minstrels play at dawn
in solemn currents
passive calls
and there I was baptized
saved
called upon
oh blackwaters
oh the glow oh the birds
beaks sighing so..

over and near the
trees silky veils
I spy up high
a sultry breeze
whispering warm nothings
to the sky

under tresses of
dressed to the hilt
willows elms
and oldest molting
is the fires calmness
in that oak

a grand facade
of suns brocade
nearer inside
the broken glade
a sly smile

a shy shimmer
once then I spied
an eagle
higher gliding
upon the
cerulean sky

whose wings
contained the glow
the shimmer of
the sun and everything
nearer

taken skyward heaven
bound into a
realm
my heart resounds
now beating

sounds and
visages of Indian
towns and
teepee
villages
of

maiden dames and red
men stronger
than
earthen clay
and tall
brown
cities

and there I lay my goal
for one day become
the man of war the
peace-pipe
song
of love and nature

bound by heart by hope
by everything
this cold world
is in
need of now

I wake and find myself in love:
And this one time I do not doubt.
I only fear, and wander out
To hold long parley with a dove.

The innocent and the guilty, met
Here in the garden, feel no fear.
But I'm afraid of you, my dear.
There was a reason: I forget.

And I by shyness am undone
And can't go out for fear I meet
My poems dancing down the street
Telling your name to everyone.

The lichen peels along the wall.
My conversation bores the dove.
He knows it all: that I'm in love
And you care much and not at all.

I shall stay here and keep my word.
Glumly I wait to marry dust.
It grieves me only that I must
Speak not to you, but to a bird.

**Written by:  Dom Moraes
Dominic Francis "Dom" Moraes (19 July 1938 – 2 June 2004) was an Indian writer and poet who wrote in the English language.

I suppose there has to be a reason
or at least a note
to mark that day--

He ate his breakfast
She let him out
He walked along the railing like the plank
defying death for pleasure
of his lady's company
to get his belly rubbed
sprawled long
across her lap

She released him
to chase the squirrels of his dreams
to his black cat adventures
to the aching green of life's
late summer ways

But, the days assemble against your return

May the angels find you quickly
my darling, Bailey
Dark beauty of coal
I was a Tuesday, bereft
You disappeared--
like the shadow of a whisper

Disappeared like hope--
in the last blow of day

that certain decorum the chug of
progress down tracks leading
far off growing together perspectives
as if horizons have personality
persona decorative mustaches
on poster board canvases in chalk
scribbled concrete bridge abutments
how the man on the hill chants come here
a cloudy guru like quality you
want need to believe fall for
because the tobacco-stained sidewalks
no longer describe your path
so you take refuge in homeless shelters
eat sup in soup kitchens in torn jeans
long unkempt hair and a bath
might be nice
the lentil soup may smell better
how you know constantly there up high
behind the glass in the steel sky eye
a man sits knowingly
pulling strings
yanking the tongues
out of your independence
just playing
like god
you huff
puff
and stare
completely...

once was told
(i heard his voice snappy)
            how mountains made small hills
and valleys
     flowers and tributaries
how
            (smallest of flows might)
calm winds often upon
                                       the moon's left side
( tons of soil) make
a day
so