A wounded Earth,
or a wounded soul,
the blood still runs.
All the way down
to the root of the tongue.
Even though all the
autumn leafs have fallen.
A wild garden still
becomes my home.
And the butterflies
come one-by-one.
Beneath a single moon
In sickness, and sickness
Dark fear crackling
at the edges.
Dissolving my sense
of time and place.
My cells are exploding
from sickness, and
the hard pan lies
you have told.
Where is the green
tea when I need it?
Not with your Doctors,
cut-bare to the bone.
The truth is mine.
Still……
Some flags raised.
Some flags down.
How passionate
those loving hands,
that came to me.
No longer a bruised
and beaten slave.
But a butterfly,
filled with beauty
and delight.
Sad conclusions
are foregone.
For a day in the sun,
and an imperfect
break in life.
A cold season
The winter breezes
no longer keeps pace.
A fault, not of you and me.
But in the peacock’s mischief
and stagnant dances.
Snared under withered moons,
and marching papers.
The staircase goes
on without end.
Yet, many pledge
themselves there one day.
In some places, the curtains
have never been raised.
And the dresses never vibrate
with love, affection
and midnight passion.
This is the cold season,
even the cats follow
the procession.
Strict appearance
and lazy atoms,
the orders of the day.
War of words
“Hey white boy”,
they said.
” Why are you trying
to push the rock
up the hill?”
I took a deep breath,
then let out all
of my pain and defeat.
Turning to you,
I kissed your sleeping lips.
And slept like a baby.
There are birds here
A play of fears, and fears.
Their misdeed is done,
and still, they seek empathy.
Suppressed and smacked
by their fathers, and
smothered by their mothers.
What is wrong with
making a promise, they say,
and then dancing
with the slum lords.
Who slant against
the certainty of tides.
Morning, afternoon,
and evening too.
The only hope is to face it,
and retell it in words,
touch and sounds.
And I have you,
a voice of gladness,
and a spiritual smile.
No longer afraid of the past
holding us captive.
Such a perfect
loveliness for now.
In dreams
Bukowski told me
they’ll never let you
write the poetry you want.
Or nap half the day,
without being punished.
When I told you
you said ‘Who’s Bukowski? “
And everything
seemed to vanish,
behind some
plastic sliding doors.
Rays of hope
I speak, but seem
to speak in vain.
I see, but seem
to see in vain.
Once, my love and I
stood long, speaking,
seeing and listening.
Now, on this path
she is with me again.
How clearly she shines
to bring me rest.
By this, to rise again.
And welcome another day,
with rays of hope.
Your presence is no longer foreign
A woman is running
towards me,
happy and free.
No longer the sad rage.
Her beauty melts
the cold morning mist.
The woman becomes blue,
within the trees of light.
And the early morning clouds
whisper to each other.
Such passions of love,
tied to their bodies.
Now I am in pain, but not alone
A happy man,
who wished to care.
Now aches abound,
and no shade this winter.
But my passion
for a common spring,
and happiness the fire.
My hand, yours to hold.
And those who laugh,
for the sad old earth.
Weep, and weep alone.
When mortal sickness
cuts them deep.
The high window
In my sleep,
digging and scratching.
Mosquitoes come and go.
always full and happy.
The wind’s tongue is vicious,
tired of the poets questions.
Eyes are covered by clouds.
And the sun sets on another
promiseless day.
A Wandering Poet 