A wall patched with lies
keeps the cracks from widening
but mementos fall
books, portraits, medals, and gifts—
gravity claims all relics
curtains shroud the crimes
centuries of stifled screams
glass betrays the hush
even the floorboards confess—
house itself is culpable
clothes, ties, hats, combs, wigs—
the trinkets of faded grace
heaped upon the street
flames burn their false finery—
pretense collapses to ash
palaces demolished
cubes enforce obedience
bankers on the run
food scraps sucked from rubbish binds—
can't stop the way of progress
rebellion outlawed
truth is now rule of edict
ugliness is king
screens implode in blinding flash
we gnaw at our own silence
mother will not come
her arms obliterated
father shamed and named
we crawl with pitiful bleats—
orphans of our own making
Alone,
the dog outrides the flock,
warning away the terrors of night.
He sees
the cheery glow of the shepherds’ fire,
murmured talk and quiet laughter
float past him softly
on the chill autumn breeze.
He longs
to sit with them beside the light,
sharing avidly
(tongue lolling,
slyly smiling)
in their good-natured jokes
but that is not his place:
He is a dog and no man
and his place is outside
in the dark, a sentinel.
He sees
the sleeping flock,
pressed body to body to hold their warmth,
and longs
to lie in their midst as one of them,
dreaming sheeply dreams,
but that is not his place:
He is a dog and no sheep
and must remain awake outside
to guide strays back to the fold.
The flock stirs anxiously and bleats.
His ears prick, he hears it too,
the tugging untamed howl
of wild wolves in the night.
The ancient wolf in him
longs
to melt into the forest,
romping with them
on their feral haunts,
but that is not his place either:
He is a dog and no wolf
and his place is beside the flock.
I wear a smiley face, the sad world to cheer,
With a red smile painted across my face from ear to ear.
My shoes are monstrous, my laugh billows, raucous out loud.
I'm the jester dancing in your face to please the crowd.
But deep within this masked disguise of paint,
Something inside has died, that's neither funny, silly nor quaint.
For the tears painted on my face are not fake but real,
For I cannot shed the dark cloud's doom, and its thunderous peal.
Playing the fool, clowning around is a shield,
For the somber dark sadness felt within and revealed,
When the tears of clowns roll down my painted cheeks.
Warm, wet and fresh, as the sadness within wells-up, and bleats.
There was a shepherd who fell sound asleep
So there was no one to tend to his sheep
The sheep were delighted, freedom at last
Followed the leader and ran from the past.
Walking for miles over fields, hills and moor
The sheep were excited, as never before
Then came the sunset and the night grew dim
They began to feel that freedom was grim.
They became hungry, went searching for food
But couldn't find forage and became subdued
Unable to lie down, they couldn’t sleep
As they were pursued by some ghastly beasts.
Tired and weary the sheep so wished to be
Back in the flock and the hand of safety
They realised they need their shepherd's care
For love, food and shelter that's always there.
When the sheep had almost lost every hope
A familiar face came over the slopes
It was their shepherd and all ran with glee
To reunite with him, most thankfully.
They vowed they'd never run away again
Wasn't worth the havoc, sorrow or pain
Then the tired hungry sheep with baa-baa bleats
Thanked God for shepherds who watch o'er their fleece.
The little linger, the wee wee wait-a-while,
says it all wordlessly, unwieldy:
"The momentary pause is pregnant!"
with distinct possibilities of a bow-out clause.
I can see and smell the stench of doubt
as you look away,
breaking our eye-to-eye contact.
That tiny delay is your way of saying it,
without saying it in words.
You, the soothsayer-in-silence bleats:
"The momentary pause is pregnant!"
Listen!
A long life can be a blessing tinged in blue
you may end up in a garish room
a narrow bed -a communal latrine
at the end of a one-candle hallway.
With very few friends left, if any
loves scattered about like gold flake in drought.
If they lived next door, they'd rarely visit anyhow...
The living do not fancy the foothills of death.
Every day the macabre weatherman bleats:
mind overcast with a 90% chance of sleet.
Once a week an angel may be your friend...
for a handsome fee.
Live long enough, inhale the bluing tomorrow
propped up in the straw chair of Van Gogh.
I saw God
Over a shattered mirror
Fragments of my mind
Echoes of spoken promises
I saw God again
In the depths of the pool
Crystal clear,ocean blue
Bubbles of the swimming pool
I did not see God
On the walls
Painted with the blood and tears of men
Adorned with the sacrifices of withered hands
I saw God
In the tears of a lamb
Innocence etched in his crushed eyes
Bleats of pain,of crushed pain
I saw God
But who is he?
This thunderous rain, for spite
Shocks on first hearing
Know the hour of it already
Will then be nearing.
Gently, all senses beguile.
Earth, child-like, renewed.
Bubbly flashes; bleats, as slick by.
As joyous pursued.
Wake up, Wake up
You who slumber and sleep
Wake up
Return whence you came
Jarring, dissonant
The ram's horn bleats
thirty, forty, one-hundred
unencumbered blasts
A simple device, no frills
the breath of a ram
caught in a thicket
magnified through its horn
It is the voice of Abraham
The cry of Sarah
The breathing heart of Isaac
~ It is the cry of a Jew
a question was raised
but pure heart unfazed
forever tranquil
had relinquished will
and so the response
held in bliss beat sconce
was benign and kind
that souls be aligned
by feeling heartbeats
of unvoiced love bleats
making them soul’s own
and with love so hone
that boundaries blur
head and heart concur
aboard God’s bliss boat
in joyous free float
wherein the question
ego did mention
now takes a backseat
heeding pure love’s tweet
I once met an old traveler ,
He said; "Do it for you and yourself".
Weightless in speech,
deep as roots of a Shepherd tree.
A torn wailing clothe reached out
for change or a mere patch,
but the flesh reluctantly ignores.
The old traveler spoke his mind.
Wool bearer bleats ease on streets,
naive and totally unconcerned
about their outfit and integrity.
The old traveler spoke his mind.
No need sacrificing what has life
for what is long gone.
Yet a stubborn fly, over dined.
The old traveler spoke his mind.
Reflective images look alluring
whether far or near,
but conversely, a huge debt blow.
Again, the old traveler spoke his mind.
"Will I be remembered as a traveler,
or 'just' a traveler"? He asked ?
And then, I heard footsteps
silently echo away into thin air.
Numbers have a lasting smell
while figures have a taste
Shapes can make an ancient sound
whose feelings stay untraced
Intuition grants a wish
to those who rebegin
Dimension in the blackest hole
new dwarf stars from within
Counting up or counting down
deception stays the same
What you gain or what you lose
redundant in the game
Endings come and endings go
ephemerally despised
Until the sacrificial lamb
—bleats out the final lie
(Dreamsleep: January, 2023)
Weep not at the close of a summer’s dream,
Nor think love will ne’er return another June
Remember things are seldom as they seem.
Cupid plays on the young his favorite scheme
Love in winter forever sings a different tune
Weep not at the close of a summer’s dream.
He ne’er dips a hand twice in the same stream
September bliss bleats like the mating loon,
Remember things are not always as they seem.
Fleeting are the loosed passions, like a meme
Strongly sensed at first, then vanishing soon,
Weep not at the close of a summer’s dream.
Infatuation offers not what one would deem,
Often making of a boy a gangly, gawking goon
Remember things are not always as they seem.
Lips grow cold and sparkling eyes their gleam
Seen in the light of a pale, luminescent moon
Weep not at the close of a summer’s dream,
Remember things are seldom as they seem.
Written August 27, 2022
The facets of love.
I love you, and your face loves itself
for its perfect nose, green eyes and rosy lips
your fragrance has a narcissistic allure.
The way you walk, the pavements adore you
Rain shies away not to make your hair wet.
I love you, and your face loves itself.
When you cross the street horn bleats
by themselves, white cars turn pink
your fragrance has a narcissistic allure.
The sun doesn’t burn your skin makes
it golden glows in the dark
till one day the mirror tells of a wrinkle
you know years are ganging on you
your enemy is time, wait in the wings
The furrows settle on your forehead
I love you but your face doesn’t love itself
Car horns do not blare anymore
Get off the road, you lazy old woman.
Your fragrance of youth has lost its allure.
a scarecrow smiles,
an infant sneers
a lion bleats,
a lamb growls
thieves chase the police,
pea-hens strut feathers n’ dance
everything is topsy-turvy~
in sync with the times!
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