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Poem

Trusted producer of crimson cheeks
That could last for weeks:
Prime source of the running temperature 
Of seekers of a different picture,
The hammering heart beats few people bear 
When nothing is going to happen till next year.

The arms that go limp and the brooding shoulders 
with which the failed recline on sympathizer elders; 
The rest remain a consoling hypothesis
And sometimes an irksome synthesis;
Failure, as a necessary stop - over along life’s highway 
And an attestation to life not a being a child’s play 
Neither den-inhabiting lion
Nor a scalding hot iron…
A whip with the whacks of encouragement
Not scheming on the skin to print a disparagement.


The blind and his many eyes

The blind does his walking,
With his trusted staff a- tapping,
His approach broadcasting,
Measured steps minding,
As his fall is his loathing

The driest on the subject of color,
Unless as a fairy tale,
To not here display valor,
As he ‘d a trillion times fail
Sure to be begging your pardon;
Upon describing Yellow
And completely in London,
As you portray the More Mellow…
Nevertheless equipped with the keener than normal,
Condition-warranted wisdom far from formal,
Fingers expertly feeling one twice
To later fish one out thrice:
Ears magically catching the faintest mumble
From the heady and the humble
And nostrils familiar with the smell of his workers
And body odor of  housebreakers.

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