Ii Poems

Lasting Beauty II

 lasting beauty is the fragrant ,perfumed daisy of bloomy eternity..

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O Quintessence!
That which makes us, shapes us,
Through the dirty day
From dust to dust –

Did they know, when they unleashed you, what they wrought?
Stellar eternity condensed in cataclysmic instant,
Iota wreaking death, and smaller blasphemy – 
Brief man stealing star-power against the night.

Did he know, when he died the little death, what he was doing?
Not you, for

MENTAL HEALTH II

Protect your mental health
Even on your job 
When your employer try
To bully and take advantage
My mistreating you and 
Invading your personal life
And space after work hours

The Letter

It started with finding the letter.
Sifting through the trunk in the attic.
Smelling of sweet rose water.
Faded yellow with time.
The paper folded and worn.

My Dearest Love,
Despite the violence surrounding you,
The demons you say haunt your dreams,
Being in constant fear of what you have done and seen,
I understand how you would feel like you are crazy sometimes.

I

Clouds II

Inkblot animals
migrating across the sky
tirelessly roaming

Why we remember

As we linger in the darkened depths of time's unrelenting motion, 
It's a moment to honor those who embarked on this journey. 
On battles fought on foreign shores,
Their courage and sacrifice forever bore.

Remembrance Day, a solemn occasion,
To honor the fallen with deep admiration.
Their names etched in granite and stone,
Their spirits in the wind forever known.

From

Angel in The Ashes

They called it “order,” they called it “right,”
As shadows grew thicker and swallowed the light.
A whisper became a decree, then a law,
And mercy was branded rebellion, a flaw.

The Angel delivered in Auschwitz’s hell,
Breathing life where the silence fell.
Her trembling hands defied command,
Cradling hope the Reich had banned.

Today I hear echoes—same venom, new tongue,
The chants of

Sound Bath II

Promised oasis
hidden in banality
suburban secret

Society II

 Organ donation is... to abduct the offspring of the heedless world..

The day i came and went

For a while, I have been gone,
Not so much for I left my poetry in my stead,
So they read, so they remember...
Yet here I am, alive yet dead.

They look at me with eyes,
Eyes that made mine cry,
No hugs, no hellos, or a faint gladness--
For I am here, alive yet dead.

The house I lived in, now

A Triad of Tanka II

The dragons have gone;

Disappearing into wind

Which bore them eastwards.

Sunset fell into shadow...

And the World became legend.
-------------------------------------

Beneath tired maples

The lone bridge is at leisure;

An old canal dry.

The lone bridge reminiscing:-

Leaves carpeting flat ripple.
-------------------------------------

Autumn in Kyoto

Overwhelms a persons senses; 

It beguiles the eye.

Whether river, hill, garden;

All beyond compare.

GAS STATION LIGHTS II

a lone ancient dark night
Your engine stumbles
rumbles, coughs to a stop
so close to E
The gas pump, blocky, digital
smells of gasoline
like a primordial dance 
an intercourse of machines
rape of a Mesozoic age, processed 
Petrol in a tank, deep
Swipe card, digital hum of circuitry 
Choose your poison, your savor 
Buttons—regular, premium, 
Reek of diesel 
Corruption 
So many

The Bloody Chapters of Stalingrad

From moments when love was cherished in Stalingrad,
Like stories written on the walls 
With the song repeated by Babushka 
And not long after that, the war reached its gates.

Hands turned into fists and ready for battle
Like heads and shoulders patiently under the whip,
The Motherland Calls enchants and glorifies,
Without knowing the ensuing bloodbath.

Every minute felt like

Fighting alongside the enemy

Disposable.
Just like the bodies scattered 
As unimportant as the soldiers blood splattered
A black man stands watching violence unfold
Not to the enemy 
But those who fought close
Those your supposed to trust
Comrades 
Yet somehow 
The black man 
Is on the receiving side of the bullets 
Not by the opposition
But by those claiming to be on the same

Noctuary II

Echoes of summons ring on.
With them a sonorous clamour for painted lines.
The rim of night stretches and holds fast to
a colossal nocturne hung on furs-and-clouds walls,
and a concentric image of life rotates on
edges of weak silver.

Long-dead poets campaign openly for verses –
among them Wordsworth and Eliot –
each putting a swagger to his arrogant gait of

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