Summer's cool. Sea's conjuror!
The petrel's wing.
Wave, up-frothing.
Til dimly thickens, fearful
Who's pout's threat, shakes
Sky's, the spell breaks.
Categories:
conjuror, summer, wind,
Form: Rhyme
Passion fruit vine
A deep blue in the shroud of nostalgia
Had laid garland around the chain-link fence
Once again emitting the fine aroma
Percolating through the leaves green and dense
Dangling greenish balls of fruit sweet and tart
An array of nature’s beauty and art
With an exquisite and winsome glamour
Display of a masterful conjuror
A thought pervades my mind that soon summer
Will announce an end. Shroud will be replaced
By a cold white sheet of snow in winter
And ardor of summer will be displaced
There is no such thing as permanence in
The nature only faint hope and your grin
© 2021 Aman
Categories:
conjuror, flower, fruit, nature, passion,
Form: Rhyme
We all need a little magic
Magic and intrigue
Can be sad or tragic
Imagination can feed
When a clever magician
Pulls a rabbit from a hat
Everyone laughs and claps
Nothing can be wrong with that
Then, dressed very smartly
In his evening dress
The conjuror pulls out some doves
Gosh! that did impress
All the audience applaud and gasp
Such a clever thing
Doves flying around the stage
Fluttering their wings
We all need a little magic
Magic and intrigue
It may be sad or tragic
Our imagination it feeds
Categories:
conjuror, 10th grade,
Form: Rhyme
T’is not any man’s wish to commit error,
For out of it borne terror and horror.
Every man’s wish is to be a conqueror.
To his seeds, fine-reflectors like the mirror.
To every child, every Dad is a juror.
Sworn to an oath of allegiance as a carer.
T’is every man’s wish to be a conjuror,
Not a staged sorcerer –
But one to lit smile on your face-make you a great scorer.
Categories:
conjuror, inspirational,
Form: Rhyme
I sat with rum and Joan Baez the other day
Writing up three poems in Bombay
One short another crooked
Yet not quite a disaster
The other long and sad
Not very bad but still not much more
Than a chinchilla whore
In her teens, plump, with baby fat
Still around her cheekbones, shoulders, waistflesh
Trellised eaves
A tooting car on Cadell Road
Dusk falling, friends out on a binge,
I alone in the darkening flat
Joan Baez on my knee her voice from the cassette recorder
Blurring the border between voice and flesh
And letting them enmesh
Wafting out over lonely streets
Climbing the Pali Hills
Sidling in stealth by private yew hedges
To caress like silk the legs of a party
Falling to pieces at only six-thirty
Prosaic, proselytizing like Diogenes in the bin
Beard straggling all over an obdurate chin
Breathe in the voice let the pictures go by
Looking for a conjuror in the sky
And confused, return
Dreams back to ashes, ashes to the urn
Quiet in the knowledge that ashes don’t burn.
They say some poetry
Is coming out of me
Juice wrung out by iron teeth
From the tender heart of a slender tree.
Categories:
conjuror, nostalgiavoice, voice,
Form: Free verse