Bowers Poems

Desire

She picked his poetic flowers
Her tender hope a crumbly seed
Each morn, in wait to taste his feed
She craved him till eve’s florid hours
In need to sate her stark bowers

A Letter from My Mother

Little girl, don't you give up now,
Unravel that quizzical brow. 

Run like a roar, not with dread,
Stand tall, hold high your head. 

Remember the words your mother said:
"O sweet daughter of mine,
Let the whole world see you shine,

Everything will be fine,
O sweet daughter of mine."

Become an alchemist,
See through the mist. 

Turn the pain into your gain,
But don't let your heart wear a brain. 

Keep the poems close you've read,
There's beauty and love just up ahead. 

Though life may not be as it's said,
It's more than butter, more than bread. 

Rise above the noise because you can,
Life is a journey, not a plan. 

Have faith in Him,
Life won't feel so dim. 

He loves you, sweet child, you radiant spark
So be gentle when life feels dark. 

Be wild and free, go hug a tree,
Dance with the wind, just let it be. 

Live with ease,
Listen to the honey colored bees. 

Talk to the flowers,
Rest under the bowers.

Spend your hours
Smiling through the rain showers. 

Carry on,
Look for dawn. 

Every hurdle will be gone,
By the next morn.

Unlit Candles

We bide our time upon the cusp
Twixt what may be and surely must
From evenings hush till morning hours
Begging chase through moon lit bowers
Where gleans the will in blissful trance
And leads the way in halting dance
To just beyond what grasp may reach
Where barely recalled memories teach
Tween what is now and might have been
To tease the eye with promised gleam
With silent whispers barely heard
That nary leash the fleeting word
But call to mind the long lost plight
That dreams and hopes in lofty flight
Might grant surcease on windswept wings
With unbought time and unsought things

INDIA

I come from a place with Mahogany trees,
With bowers of fragrant flowers surrounded by bees,
I come from a land where within it- culture and language differ,
Still humanity and brotherhood is what we prefer.

I come from a place where the poor are fed,
A place where throughout the host's house the guests are led,
A place where love and humanity is filled,
Where towers of care, trust and hope in our hearts we do build.

THE ARRIVAL OF SPRING

O dear queen of spring,
Please make me fly with your wing,
You arrived for the flowers to bloom,
Decorating my garden like a wedding groom!

You gave fragrance to my flowers,
And filled them in all my bowers,
You must be a magician,
And someone with a heart in which kindness is as high as towers.

You gave life to my plants,
And gave them joy with your magic-wand,
All I can say is that I can,
But wait for your arrival in the next spring like that of a running van.

Wind in the Night

The night wind was icily cold.
No herons or olive tree warblers flew,
Only hooded black ravens,
preying on the souls of lost men.
More red-pinkish flowers 
dropped from the tree,
leaving the branches bare
until in a few days
the green leaves will sprout,
and the tree will remain flowerless,
an ugly sight, shunned by all. 
 
Suddenly the wind dropped.
He felt despair, sullen and dejected.
Soon no one heard of him anymore.
Some say he hanged himself
upon the very tree that sheds its flora,
Others believed he fell on a stump
that pierced his bowels as he lived
a recluse amongst an unknown tribe.
Others made him their hero 
just for the sake of being different.
But he was seen no more.
 
The icy night wind blew,
the Judas tree shed its odorless flowers,
as true lovers escaped to scented bowers.

Seijaku

Seijaku – 8-1-24
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seijaku

Serenity abides with tranquility
Abiding in beauty
And deep respirations of satisfaction
Ready
	Alert
Overlooking tangled mazes of overlapping obligations
 Labyrinths of lists -  
And atonal demands.
   
As the sun streaks past engorged calendars
In whirly-gigs of heavy-handed chaos
The shade of tranquility
 Stretches out 
  Looming across the face of serendipity
  With the breath of the rose
   The whisper of sapphire jewels
    Born from oceanic bowers.

In the shadows waits 
 The gift of each rubric solved
Pushing aside the tyranny of over committed -
In dawns, and Aurora’s ballet in neon slippers,
The spirit dialates,
  As moonlight drips from feathery boughs,
Healed from epidemics of minutes 
 Swallowed by a never resting pendulum.

The poet arises, even blooms, 
 Ignoring the cataracts of frail dreams
When hurried footsteps and clouded hearts
 Still race infected by chaotic delirium
Tripping over beauty’s outstretched boughs
To see – to notice -
 To embrace 
Lavender, gently waiting, with amazement.

The Flight of The Lunar Moth

A silver ghost on moonlit wings,
Flutters through night's velvet curtain.
Pale dancer in celestial rings,
Of earthly cares, she's now uncertain.
A living moonbeam, fragile, light,
Drawn to stars like distant flowers.
Navigating by lunar sight,
Through shadowed groves and midnight bowers.
In twilight's realm, she briefly gleams,
An ephemeral wisp of dreams.

On Rainy Days

I am
positively 
negative 
that's why
friends
and family
get a 
charge 
out of me,
except on
rainy 
days
when I'm 
negatively 
negative
that's
called
vitamin D
deficiency
induced
gloomy-ness. 

How I long for the sun and the flowers;
where is the fun when the rain showers
its gloom on the bowers?

Crimson on Canvas

Love is a passionate portrait painted with the heart
Burnished brush strokes are a cherished work of art
when friendship blossoms as buds bloom into flowers
and romance reigns with caresses in garden bowers

Splashes of seafoam and evergreen flecks her eyes
Cerulean for the sea near the shore where she lies
Tint of Tuscan gold in the sand, reflected by the sun 
and pastel pink on the lovely lips of my beloved one

Crimson on canvas, ruby red once she's been kissed
It's my intimate impression of her in a tender tryst
With carefully blended oils, her portrait takes shape
as I capture the delicate tresses curling on her nape

My deep desire tempts and teases my male senses
Against loving her, I will build no bulwark of defenses
My fingers long to fondle her cheek when she smiles
This beauty is not a woman who uses feminine wiles

I've adorned the canvas with her image as best I can
Flawed to a fault by my hand. I am an imperfect man
In this painted creation I hope I've been able to portray
the beauty and grace of her that words cannot convey

The Glory of her Tresses

Few sing of raven’s ebony,
Fewer still of its shining plume,
The glory of her grey tresses
Oft glisten my life’s every gloom.

Now that the dawn has turned to dusk,
I’ll not talk of bowers in bloom,
Nor buds that blossomed before time,
How her fragrance had filled the room.

No use nursing old memories,
Nor yet wiping them off with broom,
Soul dwells nigh in heart’s cavity,
A lifetime’s taken, it to groom.

Black is no colourless baffle,
A total loss nor is vacuum
Let it not dwell in a spectrum,
To me it signifies no doom.

Fair in life never to assume,
And nor presence nor absence fume, 
As life tolerates no vacuum,
With her musings I fill my room.


Should things fail t’be so, I’d not fume,
It’s fair in life oft to assume,
And never to leave a vacuum,
Let musings fill up a bare room.
___________________________________ 
Musings |16.04.2024| memories, black love

God Is Good

Goodness doesn't always inspire,
Or worth too much in the world's desire
Despite its benevolent attire.

Its value is stored as treasure, 
Stacked up like gold per heaven's measure.

Goodness is for you to spend
On earth, like a gardener tends
Overflowing vines and flowers,
Depositing seed for God's eternal bowers.

A Farmhouse for my daughter

If I get to be a man of great means,
I’d buy a fine farmhouse in Philippines,
  That has naturally flowing water,
  And would let it to my soul’s sole daughter.
The rent I might ask for would just be this:
That she lets me spend there some time of bliss,
  Amidst those fresh blossoms of first flowers,
  First fall of mangoes with their great flavours,
An if she grows new blossoms on bowers,
Rent-less, whole estate will be ever hers—
  That farmhouse in her native Philippines,
  That has naturally flowing water,
  Would then be all hers, my soul’s sole daughter.
_________________________________________ 
Free verse |10.03.2024| daughter, father 
In tribute to Edward Thomas: If I should ever by Chance

Tattered

Tattered like an old love letter
Grasped too often in withered fingers
Folded and unfolded in an effort to remember
A long ago romance and those secret trysts
Beneath bowers of summer flowers
And too soon ended by elders
Shocked and scandalized by a love
They could not fathom and could not endure
Existing in the shadows of unsanctioned socialties.

The words in the letter are faded
But what does that matter to the eyes
Of the aged whose life has been tattered
And torn and then reborn in the image
Of what was patently proper in the minds
Of the neighbors and then sent the carriage 
That carried her far from the arms of her lover
And trysts beneath bowers of summer flowers
In the long gone days of her youth.

gifting more than gold

the lake's clear crystal
belies the ice hold's brittle
grasp yet I'm blissful

the springtime's warm sun
will quickly disperse the fun
blossoms have begun

in hearts young and old 
flirts and flirting growing bold
gifting more than gold

summer's golden sun 
brings forth the bursting blossoms
as lovers embrace 

beneath the bowers 
sweet youngsters are holding hands 
with time and pleasure

slipping towards dusk 
the wise old men remember
the first touch of spring.

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