Friday, February 27, 2009
(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.
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
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
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…