Whichever pathway you decide to choose,
They’ll always be lessons and lots of clues.
On every pathway, lessons will exist,
Finding truth will require that you persist.
Walking a path, does not learning assure.
Takes more than presence, learning to secure.
From your doubt you ask, “why aren’t I learning?”
Lacking desire, the internal burning.
In the present, let the path do its part.
Clear your mind, listen, and follow your heart.
The answers you’re seeking come from inside,
Consider each option then you decide.
Lessons will surely come as you travel,
Allowing the complex to unravel.
Take the complex and make it simplistic,
Lessons learned will seem realistic.
Initially seems like the distance of tip of the needle ,
gradually drawing miles in the middle .
Leading to unnecessary battle ,
solving it can only settle .
The two become quiet ,
one the eyes clues there's a fight.
Breaking close relations ,
all over the nations .
~ Avantika
Initially seems like the distance of tip of the needle ,
gradually drawing miles in the middle .
Leading to unnecessary battle ,
solving it can only settle .
The two become quiet ,
one the eyes clues there's a fight.
Breaking close relations ,
all over the nations .
~ Avantika
Monalisa is smiling there, mounted on the wall,
eternally to be understood and felt along
I saw many digital mimicry,of this, many carbon copies,
but never the original subtlety of a song
That never meant to belittle you, the one who works in a subway
to earn with six inches,or even a footlong
I never knew if facebook portal could allow her to rank the smiley
of our sibling photoshoot, fading for so long.
Many years flew by, to revere the painting, but never the original lifeline, to let down the trickling warmth,
rolling down, winning the gravity of a sunday and unsung.
Did I ever tell you, the sunlit sun has a way to reflect upon
The pupils of the bright eyes, my morning chant, and often one muse, lifelong?
whence con clues on, about intellectual depth and wrong!
Winter Blues, Spring Clues
Miracle Man
2/24/2025
Soon God will usher winter days to sleep,
and the warming air will cause birds to sing.
Lawns will turn green and require some upkeep,
this is the happening, welcoming spring.
The thing most appealing, arriving birds,
the Robins are our first birds to appear.
Then Mocking Birds spewing other birds words,
but to flocks of Starlings i don’t endear.
From the patio I watch Wrens at work,
putting four inch sticks through a one inch hole.
Each episode I’ve watched was a piece of artwork,
they don’t tire or stop until at their goal.
The Cardinals add color to our drab yard,
eating sun flower seeds that we provide.
From a phone line a Scissor Tail on guard,
Doves peck last fall’s acorns at driveways side.
Some days seen, a sudden influx of crows,
and the north breeze still gives me one last nip.
whispering gently from the north it blows,
while my now cold mug gives me one last sip.
broken branches lead
to secret home of insects
hiding from the world
Miss Barker, let me say a word,
though this to many seem absurd.
Your attitude I find pragmatic,
not judgmental, not dogmatic.
So poetry is not your strength
though some will go to any length
to immortalize themselves in verse,
writing dogerell, if not worse.
Avoid concerns to you so alien.
Be what you are, a Pomeranian.
He used to be a hoarder of clues
would keep them in a mind-binder.
Imagine the surprise
when all the clues turned into blank pages
It happens,
a person has a thousand ways
to figure out this world.
He thought he saw some patterns
in this messy conundrum of reality
He had conjectured – had formed workable theories
had constructed reasonable solutions for all the big puzzles
that bewildered and bedeviled other folks.
Then poof….all his clues became unglued.
Now he knows nothing for sure
He tries to write
about all the clues he once had
but he has lost faith in clues
especially missing clues,
even when they seem to hint at answers
point to explanations or breakthroughs
or allude to a better understanding,
one as clear as daylight perhaps -
not even.
He doesn’t trust the clear light of day either
but wonders now
what that light is hiding?
yes, it is this angular moment
when every thing is a symbol
if the beetle lands on the swollen finger
if the left eyelash blinks disorderly
this game is lost
the ash that will soil everything
is in front of the mirror putting on makeup
it's no use filling everything with colored pencils
serve dreams at coffee time
or pretend it doesn't exist
this time to fall to your knees
pick some roses around
and decorate what you can
I just thought it was good to let you know
Airborne chameleons
in the snow-blown morning:
dull white, grey gulls flying,
silently disappear
against dull white, grey clouds.
In a mystery that starts with an abduction,
And ends in what might be the perfect crime,
I noted, with a sigh of resignation,
How evidence depends on space and time.
There was little that gave telling on the surface.
The more I looked, the less I knew the score;
Just scratches on the Maserati’s fender,
And a young child’s dirty handprint on the door.
When I pause and seek to listen,
To that voice that's deep inside.
My search often finds only silence,
As if intuition has abandoned and died.
This moves me to sounds I observe,
With perception that's experienced and real.
While exercising any lack of emotion,
Where the technical outweighs any feel.
Now I realize the empirical shortfalls,
are rarely guided by any moral debate.
Yet the need is both complex and basic,
So that we sense a value, between love and hate.
“...like small Cherokee children, torn from freedom and
the mountains, paled in faded lodges by rocky Oklahoma streams.
Bettie M. Sellers Westward from Bald Mountain 1974
LIBRARY CLUES
Ms. Bettie Sellers’
bald mountain of poems
subtly lays dormant
until a Cherokee chats —
voices commune together
3/1/2020
Lights of splattered houses
seem to stare at me as i saunter
towards them
with the night
before i enter my house
i rest my head
on cooling glass
Drizzled rain tempers my spine
sighs unsure of cause
linger in the frost
and sound is flesh
Darkness looks so lost
Ink birds slip the moonlight
Screaming blacks and blues
Searching in the nothingness
without any clues
Monday morning clues
What did they do on the weekend?
The smiling ones
Do they mean it
Or are they hiding their truth?
Did their wives beat them?
Did their dogs hurt their feelings?
We all wear our masks
Especially on Mondays
Revealing nothing.
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