Dear Florence,
How the evening sun sets upon us,
To garnish the sky in marigold wreaths;
For it sprouts the mist of heavenly light,
The myth I wish to garner from thee.
O’ deathly lady, speak unto me truth,
Does beauty cower ‘neath thy sanctum of stone?
Or perhaps it hides within moss ridden yards,
And loves anew each death it’s outgrown.
O’ deathly lady, veiled under the breeze,
How I envy thine eyes lain barest at dawn;
Awaiting the sun through tender spring leaves,
And blinding thyself – awake to true beauty.
Florence Margaret Mainland
(Nov. 25, 1903-June 8, 1925)
Mound Cemetery, Racine, Wisconsin
With bent backs, aching bones, and withered hands
We unfurled sail beneath a glorious moon
Which painted you softly on the jeweled night
Your smile glistened as you stood at the bow
Our canvas full we braved a quiet bay
With the barest breeze trailing in our wake
The wind deserted us upon a silken sea
Furling our sails tight against the spruce mast
We tossed our anchor into a white sprayed splash
Venturing below deck we latched the hatch
Turning up the radio with feisty, rollicking rock
Yeehaw Grandma shrilled this eager Grandpa
As our wood hulled boat shattered the glassy sea
Pitching port and starboard with roll and wrenching yaw
Our ancient bones arose at morn through a popped-up hatch
To find a blushing dawn caressing the sky.
Observe the modern generations walk
on by; they suckle from the plastic teat
of coffee cups, and stumped by stamping feet
they shamble unaware from flock to flock.—
infant adults—if earnest I may speak;
Look there: one loops in circles (a grand feat!)
and, as if an ornithological suite,
the gaggle shuffles behind,—“squawk squawk squawk!”
Yikes… I suppose that if I ran at ‘em
they’d scatter faster than frightened pigeons.—
Wouldn’t even need to make the barest noise,
merely the sight of a threatening poise
is enough to disperse their religions
(yes—religions—phony, false—“fun”:—numb!).
My purse shows barest of bottom,
The returns, never so handsome,
What a Valentine Day
That would never well pay--
A flying kiss is all to me hast come!
Dear Valentine, vague kiss
Can’t do what can a Miss,
What matter can, cannot atom.
_____________________
Happenings |03.03.2025|
Note: The Valentine Day came and passed. This man of the Limerick only now could get his P & L account ready.
Between the howls of the wind,
there is a stillness,
a pause that speaks
in a voice too soft for the hurried ear.
The world contracts,
folding into itself beneath the weight of frost,
and in that moment,
I learn the language of waiting.
Tree branches rattle like old thoughts
scraping against the edges of sleep,
each creak a reminder
that even the barest things hold their ground.
They do not break,
only bend,
offering their silence
as proof of endurance.
The full moon spills its knowing
across the frozen earth,
silver light carving paths
where footsteps hesitate.
In its glow,
I see the shape of my own solitude,
a quiet lesson in reflection,
a gentle hand
guiding me beyond the dark.
All in a winter’s night,
I find wisdom
not in the storm,
but in the space it leaves behind.
He was a born teacher
From birth destined to be
You'd know by his phene.
In capitalist-run schools
He's taught for many years
Earning pennies for labour.
Three years a beneficiary
On stipend of N-power teach
The Program axed by corruption.
Then long a community teacher
He's rendering public service
For little pay out of community levy.
He's adept; he got more papers
Hoping for full employment
With satisfaction in the job.
He got a conversion to EdoStar
State-run, two-year probationer
On the barest wage.
On his appointment
In the civil service, he got
The news of his careerlong pursuit.
The government is youth-centric
On account of his age, maybe his status
Or affiliation, he's disqualified.
Meanwhile politikers in the council
Of politricks make millions
By the seconds chattering all day.
What is love,
but a fragile
promise
held together
by the barest
thread.
So easily broken
if not carefully
looked after.
So humbly rewarded
if treated with care.
Shown not through words,
but our actions,
for it's the little things
that make up
why we love them.
It is one thing to say,
'I love you',
but how lovely it is
to be shown.
For actions have always
had a louder voice
than words itself.
Mythica wishes me to curse her
might she tell the tale of our
troubles to find make script for the
fools of Olympus. She then shall
become pregant that the Gods of mortals
shall see her troublings and have sympothy
on her. Aphodiety might smile
and whisper to him: unmounted she
shall have favor. Speak ill of me and
they shall gather to make my
wways unpleaseant and
altered.
Amist the screples of words
might she untangle the
Sorra and read. To stand
foolish and unwanted!
Oh yeah world of men
she her in troublin
site her wicked ways
speak of her as such
oh ye men of men of wisdom
might her sufferage
sought the slender
stand before the nights
barest known of gender
"Peel my grapes and Feed Me
Might you than be his
until then Might she love me
than she shall be his
peel my grapes and feed me
a simple skilless chore
Might I speak of you caring
how you love and chore"
From the Book Fetch the Citole' By a Dry Places
Tired footsteps drag
sliding barely lifted
stirring the dust
that clings to all
light does burn
stealing moisture
drying cracking
life fading away
drawing near to
town so ancient
ruined buildings
along the way
entered into
square abandoned
empty buildings
like skulls line
once white marble
like alabaster
stands of fountain
water stained
once did life give
to all the people
who once were here
now gone away
not barest trickle
here does linger
nor does hope
yet here remain
Thunder the poor plagued,
the tread thread barest.
Thunder the crow black priests
beaks clattering, hands anointed
with broken oaths.
Thunder also the mean streets
and all the mean sisters of hope forgot.
Thunder under a seashell dark,
for a flea picked residue
is the image of love,
God bedecked in the vesture of the ragged,
a derelict in a derelict park.
Thunder in the unmade bed
where sweat exhausts an arid skin.
Thunder all headless silences
That hammer hard upon the breast.
Thunder the naked man
under the coffin lid of this moment
and the next. Thunder until words
riddle and warp, being all things left
after the clap and roar.
See no water for perspiration,
Ask for flowers, not all the garden.
Light a lamp if ye feel there’s darkness,
Nights are always dark, ask for no Sun.
Blame me, all the evil will I bear,
But ask not what might wake my demon.
In matters ‘tween you and almighty,
Ask for no human intervention.
If you’re looking for a fair image,
Ask mirrors— but with mind’s abstention.
If you’re out, looking for happiness,
Ask mind’s monkey to lose its mission.
If you have enough of bitterness
In heart, ask for no liquor’s passion.
If you’re out to describe barest truth,
Ask for no designers to fashion.
As poet let me read my poems,
Ask for facts, nor yet any fiction.
_________________________________
Ghazals |09.04.2022|
Barest of branches
shining in simplicity,
so much room to grow.
WAITING FOR DEATH
Daily I strolled, past this old man's house
And there he sat, from dawn to dusk
His mien, tenebrific uncompromisingly
Hunched in his chair, dried to the bone
Cold and crabby, waiting...just waiting
And so I dared ask one dreich, dreary day
"Good sir, what keeps you out here everyday?
"For I see, it takes a mighty bit of your time"
He spared me a frown, s disturbance I'd say
"I'm waiting for Death, that crafty crafty lout"
Confused I was, that one would pass time thus
I leaned on his fence, my curiosity compelled
For to me, this was one quite curious event
"Won't let that philistine sneak up on me" he said
"I'm smarter you see, won't be caught unawares"
"I made no investment, no profit I stacked"
"I lived my whole life at the barest I could"
"And stored not treasure, for that it would steal"
"And had me no pleasure, Ha! a surprise it'd be"
"Let death come for me, there is nothing to take"
I walked away, contemplating the perplexity
How a life would be wasted in such a wary way
For to await an event with no appointment
And to deprive oneself over such a quandary
Is in itself, i'd clearly say, a sad, very sad life.
Stripped of light
I witness the night at it's lowest
It's an ugly one
No stars, so no wishes
Moonless, it's dark
My eyes are drawn to it
Or maybe drowned in it
Sunken in my own
Ocean of feelings
My heart in my ears
I listen and I breathe
My heart in mouth
I swallow how I feel
My mind rambles on in circles
It's a mental slow ride
Many stop points
I quietly hang out at
I just have to deal, don't I?
And I simply don't know what to do with my hands
Maybe I should hold myself
Stripped of lies
I witness myself at my barest
It's a lonely side
Like the night
When the light is gone
Beauty and ugly become one
Krishna trims the hedges
an artist in heart, he shapes them
creates three tiers, the bottom one big
the center small, the top one medium.
Fortunate to have him as my gardener.
I watch Krishna from the patio
He cuts humming a hit song
of yester years
ammavum neeye , appavum neeye
The same way the playback singer sings,
The hedges turn lovely, each one
depicting a pattern, The song flows
without any interruption. Krishna, is tired,
Rests for a while.
Wiping off the sweat, he looks
at his work. Says Sabash,
rises up to finish the remaining.
I gaze at him with wonder.
Krishna is almost the same age
as I am. I complain of my worn
out knees, and walk the barest minimum
while he stands for hours in the sun.
Hard ways have made him strong,
The comforts I enjoy have let me down.
Who is better off ? I ask myself.
It goes without saying.
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