Lady in repose
drifting to horizons
pink and psychedelic
where dream dimensions
uncoil like ribbons
vibrant rainbow iridescence
circling moon spotlight
hidden fairy places
angel spun filigree
festooning domed citadels
of fantasy tales.
Not Ready Yet
Give me just one more day of Christmas jubilee
Not ready to let go of Christmas, yet
Or stop gathering flecks of stardust
Scattered from the Heavens
Still reveling in the sweet aroma of frankincense
Or bovine straw
Lingering on evening's breath
To walk by candles in the window
Enchanted by twinkling lights of welcome.
My heart pitches a tent
On hillsides among olive trees
Craning it's neck to hear newborn angelic carols
And longs to cradle the pure cry of Love
Again and again
Infinite Love I can hold and understand.
Stay one more night, sweet season of hope,
Beside me
Not letting the lights twinkling with wicks of joy,
Festooning trees and doorways,
Dim with memory
Or exchange red and green for blue and ice
On starless nights.
Not ready to eat
The last crumbs of Christmas manna
Or leave the firesides of desert travelers
Stargazing.
Just one more night precious holiday
And then you can slip away
To walk from Bethlehem to Jerusalem.
It’s all too easy
To reminisce and languish in memories
Our mind tricks us
Rose coloured filter
Applied to events past
Negatives replaced with positives
Significant details omitted
Facts artfully edited
Festooning flourishes added
The canvas reworked
The narrative nudged
Remembrance airbrushed
Our role as protagonist enhanced
So yesteryear reappears with fondness
Illuminated with a soft romantic glow
Enhancing all things past
Thus we yearn for a return
To an illusion of time long gone
If only we could focus
And expend the same mental energy
Creating a positive present
And a future filled with promise
Stop clinging to the ephemeral “good old days”
Make your today count every day
And invest energy wisely in your tomorrow
My Adopted Burg
Once upon a time I saw the vibrant
Roses on your streets, festooning both sides.
Now some of those appear wilted, as if
Mauled by a virulent strain of fungus.
Now I see frosted feet seeking cover,
Marooned in river of woes flooding streets.
I see them pushing their stuffed shopping cart
to better grounds to escape the rigors.
Magnolia-lined boulevards still criss-
Cross forbidden avenues, passing through
Manicured grounds of opulent bungalows,
Trimmed with the sharp tools of gardeners:
Still stand prim and proper. Gardeners fear
Master's fierce dog-whistle. Still plot to
Be on the level ground to realize
The recurrent dream of whiffing fragrance
On the other side of gulf. Which they can
Only guess since their senses are muffled.
©2020 Aman
Old Roxie is dead. She's gone to her bed
Near the drop-off where leaves are decaying.
Yet she rises again from that terrible fen
In a manner grotesque and dismaying.
The grave that we dug, although tidy and snug,
Was too shallow for her to be laying.
So the volatile gas that shot from her ass
(Excuse me for vulgarly saying)
Overexcited, spontaneously ignited
And created a monstrous spraying!
The guts and the hide were strewn far and wide,
Festooning the branches, displaying
Those rotting remains and even the brains
Of her corpse. The crows are buffeting!
There's no consolation for miscalculation,
No comforting words for allaying
Our grief and chagrin for committing the sin
Of the mess for which now we are paying.
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