Upon Lost Belongings

Bend and gather the lose and the last
Of my belongings, as they shall,
Pass amid those rising masts
Those drift them afar and swell,
By the broken wind and word,
That stood gaping against the shore,
Treading upon the sands no more.

While my belongings break their customs,
And rise high and low, like dancing sails.
For once in their raising, lay unaccustomed
By their meandering and manners pale.
Pearls and pearls -measured in stooks.
Why their say be a languished truth?
Like bartered conceptions of the youth.

In the gathering the lost is lost,
Founding only in the memory, remains.
Yet I seem to carry the cost
Of the losing and it’s following claims.
They be set for a journey now.
The journey of mine, broken, ceased,
Bend to gather – belongings or peace?

Upon Wandering Thought

I have left a thought wandering,
In placid silence and reflections.
While the dust lays, timidly, gathering,
I seek pleasure among other creations,
That float and stir the peace within
And mellow with those falling debts.
Have they been those sights unseen?
Ah! The conspiring soul of mine! It lets
Them inside that tranquil place.
Unknown to all, where the ripples they,
Move farther and farther to embrace
A thought left wandering at the bay.

From Pages Of A Fool

The Narration:

A voice there remained so unsung
That it saddened to depth the day.
While marching men’s armors wrung,
He ate on a hill with wine and played.

The Marching Men:

The tapping of our feat is one,
You fool, you fool and your flute
Pray rot with your wine and bun.
It’s to our names folks sing and salute.

Our blades are fine and arrows sharp
Our strength is greater than of any beast
While with wine and bun you lark.
We shall march for an eternal feast.

We roar louder than any thunder
Come! Enmity with all its may.
With your wine and bun do wonder
Against us immortals what is your say?

The Fool:

I saw the men of song and salute.
I saw the men of eternal fest.
I saw men claiming immortality
I saw the men of souls unrest.
I saw them all lost, not won
I, therefore, play over my wine and bun.

“I have been a king.
I have been a slave.
Yet I know
Same taste of the grave.”

Upon Reasons Of No Questions And Answers

To see more than the depth of the day,
Its extended hand over the longings
So profound, yet they voice-timid and small
But brave enough to gather the length of
The morn, the noon, the even...while all
May succumb to the lost light; the brighter one;
To the light found, only enough to draw
Lines around the solid self’s, of mine and
The one's I have left long behind.

What it becomes to wear a reason
For a question untamed? What it
Becomes of reason that cannot
Conceive an answer.

A Passing Thought

Trace to me the losing words
Grasp them with a hint of pain.
Never together...never the same.
The falling be so cruel yet kind
It offers a lesson in nothingness, so
What is it to you that binds
Over the courteous fragments-low
Hung over the even sky
And the curtained mist and aimless rain.
Benevolence be so graced so rhymed
To sooth away the will of pain.
But has the dusk ever chased
Anything else but the dying sun
Or the dawn have been in play
For a chance to man to be the one.

Upon A Prince Who Is Set To Be A King.

Flaming cornet of the orange bloom,
Come my prince…have you come soon?
The winds are yet to leave May’s bosom
And the cackle of the infant blossom.
So stretch and stretch your majestic hand,
To hold the flames of the withering noon
And the times of the gray sands,
As they cover your gentlest passions,
So be not timid; be all you can stand
And you shall have your kingly lands.

Upon One Rainy Evening

The rain-she rebels again and again
Against the window glass though,
The gallantry falls all not in vain,
As a few trickle down my brow.
Careless she is; once carefree she was-
Last spring; come mid August
She claims the rattling leaves, alas!

The myriad streams carve their trails,
On the glass and off on the lea.
Not from the clouds do all they hail,
Hark! I grow too blind to see.
So I wonder ‘bout that graying stone,
Standing against the crossing brook,
To drown without a sigh or a moan.

Dear twilight of a misty shade,
Falls clamorously yet steady, so
All that stays from all that fades-
Whispers of the bent trees’ woes.
Their pride, now, wears not the grace,
Of the days of their purple bloom,
They be no greater than the thunder’s mace.

The night’s colour remains unbothered,
Unlike the changing moods of the day.
Upon the glass my imprints are cottered
To the trails slowly waning away.
Though, by the wee hours I forget my rue.
And know the night as it is-
The night is true…the night is true.

Upon The Past Winter

The day is gracious, warm and soft,
A tender breeze that greets the morn
Ah! Last of the leaves wearing frost
Rattle, O! why shall they mourn?
Amid the memories are they lost?
Waiting yet…Waiting to be reborn.

For the winter’s left its frozen trails
Delicate, delicate, delicate…so
Collapses below the leave’s mail.
With every passing they shall know,
The imprints of the hands must fail.
Deep is the impression of spring, lo!

Fall Of An October Leaf

The sward swells where it lacks the green
Bears the dew where it does not, so-
An impression where a magpie had been,
And a squirrel’s trail’s left briskly low.
An October leaf falls in between,
Which way to go? Which way to go?

Her touch is gentle, soft yet weak.
The ground may not yield her call.
So to the blades of grass, it meets
Alas! They shall not let her move at all.
The winds must carry her to their beat.
And so an October leaf must fall.

So an October leaf must fall.

Upon Silence

Imitate the silence within me.
Be it the falling of autumn leaves.
The impressions on the snow I see
Or dreams that saints may weave.
Be the fragrance of the velvet mirth.
Be a stolen stone from the earth.
A shade of darkness and so it be
The silence that is left in me.

Tread On My Soul

Tread on my soul, shall I fall?
Like those who have fallen before,
Or like those who shall fall again.
Be not but soft and tender and light,
for that is not the way of pain
I shall be wronged and not be right,
Though I will grow right ever more
More than any soul that falls.

Brave Men

The fragile words float astray.
Men’s weak hearts and so are they,
To dwindle like the grass in a storm.
The worlds they know or are yet to be known?

The brittle acts float astray.
Men’s weak hands and so are they,
A lance that cannot be held up high
A fallen man bears a fallen sigh!

The pathetic lives float astray.
Men’s weak hopes and so are they,
Why shall only a few be brave?
When all are set to taste the grave.

From The Diary Of A Traveler

Mountains are not far away
From the valley I can smell the snow
The grass here refuses to sway
While the fir up there takes a bow.
A distant song of the nightingale
Echoes across the ridges and the vales.
I shall rest here today,
With colors as even sun plays.

The raucous creek is noisily profound
I dream it to be silent up there.
Where the fairies fly high and unbound,
Secluded from malicious leers.
The dew confuses me with the grass
Cleaner than any crystal glass.
To the blades, the drops are bound
Like a king newly crowned.

The night is escorted by its playful mates
The mist floats down like a troop of ghosts.
The moon appears behind the horizon’s gates
While the breeze raises its welcome toast.
They conspire amid the howls and the hoots
Forbidding trees to either blossom or fruit
Mournfully, yet so, the grasshopper grates
Eluding the judgment of its icy fate.

The dawn breaks with a joyful glee
Against a sky as clear as sapphire
The mist vanishes among the trees
And the poltergeist breeze begins to tire.
My trail is narrow, coarse and bleached
I smile to fill the silence of my speech.
The nightingale sings, again, so free
Her song echoes, for long, in me.

Three Seasons

(The image is one of my favorite places back home.)


Alas! The perch is empty now
The twitter has long gone
Stooping below the chastened brow
A creaky, withered, frozen rone.
Died, has the, jay and sparrow’s row?
Epithet: a brooding splintered stone.

Ah…the pompous springtide glee
Lads and lasses’ frolics on the sward.
They knot and knot…a gluttonous spree
Tête-à-tête! Sympathy begs the wasted lard.
Who shall care for the bauble vee?
Epithet: wisdom’s diadem of an ancient bard.

O The Carpet! Of twigs and twines
The whistle of the wind, high and proud.
Aloof stands golden forest lines
Dead and silent, though glittering loud.
How long for a chirp? O Time! O Time!
Epithet: Shadows fallen, hunched and bowed.

Mystic Dawn

All credit for the photgraph goes to aspen (http://barbedwireandroses.blogspot.com/) whose pics are a great source of inspiration. Thank you for allowing me to use a pic from your blog.

Waiting awhile for the mystic dawn,
the green pastures wake up with me.
The prairies, the breeze, sing along.
A romance world's too blind to see.
The mountains slowly then unveil
all their secrets and their sounds.
A yawning rose's fragrance I steal
and innocence with which it is bound.
Clouds cloud the sky so often
that they cloud my soul with what they say.
And as the moon slowly begins to soften
wondering it will...or may?
I see the sun arrested by the dew.
A thousands colors that linger on.
Words those are lost amid morning’s hue.
A soul that softly hums along.

An Old Man...

(Tribute to an old man i knew...he made me who I am today. God Bless his soul.)

I know not what an old man says…
His words are feeble…they dwindle
Like a flickering flame in the twilight.

I know not what an old man sees…
His eyes look so weak and deep
They sometimes turn as white as snow.

I know not what an old man hears…
Shrills and screams mean nothing to him
He remains silent, mute as an iceberg.

I know not what an old man thinks…
He laughs sometimes in an empty room
He says he talks to angels and ghosts.

I know not what an old man is…
For he is old and I am not; I’ll know not
Not till the day I am old.

The Trilogy

I am working on a new trilogy and have completed the first poem. the plot is the romance between the mist and the smoke.

The Journey.

A quenched fragrance

Is all that’s left

Of the mist. That once

Flooded the woods-of pine and cedar.

Like a crowd on the street.

She was silent yet warm.

Fervent yet tender.

Nor for once did she speak…

Not to the petunias;

Guarding the gates of the woods;

Who inquired the council she sought.

(For the woods are old and wise

And they; be it breeze or gale;

Would come seeking answers.)

Not to the old trail; covered

With pale threads of pine so thick,

One could not feel the ground below;

That she sometimes took and

Sometimes swept away from.

Not to the golden tress

That imbued through all

That it touch, however

Weak enough to be devoured

And extinguished.

Across she came, a raucous creek

At a yonder from the broken tree,

Riveted to one who survived last season’s storm.

And dew drops bound obediently

To the blades of the grass.

Across she came such generous bounties.

Lastly she sighed, in relief…

She knew she was lost

For she had found the old battered cottage.

Quickly she gulped the entire thing…

Cracked stone walls, olive green roof,

Creaking door, silent chimney; a mysterious hoof;

That ran towards the cottage.

She rested then…listening to the

Soft violin played inside the cottage.

Then she rested…