autumn shakes trees threadbare
spent leaves loosen from brittle stems
each clinging to its bough
waiting for the pluck of the wind
to uncover what waits in their axils
one leaf lies pressed flat
between pages seldom turned
sheltered from rain and light
its veins mirror buried roots
grounded in what it remembers
wine stains the glass
one mouthful remains untouched
thirst lingers at the rim
its sweetness deepens in restraint
the poised tongue, tastes what it has left behind
on dust-laden shelves
books keep mementos between well-thumbed pages
dog-eared by the aftermath
where spines remember the press of hands
finding places spent years forget
as leaf settles on leaf
each layer buries another
last laid, first recalled
the gathered stack of a life
waiting for the scurry of a wanton wind
neither dusk nor dawn
can deceive me about the leaves
I shed, keep, forgo, forget,
give away, hold back—
each leaf, a page I can't keep.
autumn shakes threadbare
spent leaves loosen from brown stems
each clings to the bough
waiting for the tug of wind
to show buds in leaf axils
one leaf lies pressed flat
between pages seldom turned
kept from rain and light
its veins mirror buried roots
grounding what the leaf recalls
wine darkens the glass
one mouthful remains untouched
thirst catches its shine
sweetness ripens when restrained
the tongue leaves a taste behind
on dust-silver shelves
each book keeps its well-thumbed leaves
spines remember hands
binding what the years recall
in their dog-eared aftermath
names fade from old cards
ink gives way to the humdrum
old contacts grow pale
what I leave for others' eyes
means nothing to their kind ghosts
leaf settles on leaf
each layer hides another
last in, first recalled
gathered from one's only life
their weight growing underneath
neither dusk nor dawn
can deceive me about leaves
I shed, keep, forgo
forget, give away, hold back—
each leaves something of a life
we buried witchcraft
but kept old snake oil bottles
lined up on our shelves
hooked up with magic potions
to give hope when logic fails
science displays signs
fate is foretold on the screen
yet we plead for cures
still brewed over smoky fires
hope fixes we can't forgo
hunger stays away
concoctions remove old stains
herbs promise rebirth
purging latter-day poisons
making tomorrow spotless
old curses survive
though no cauldron lights the room
we demand revenge
through hidden spells and curses
that only witchcraft provides
when reason falls short
shadowy figures emerge
in crystal ball veils
to give our nameless fears cause
rather than leave darkness blank
science lights the room
yet something circles in flames
older than knowledge
witchcraft belatedly lives
where reason cannot go
Now!
kiss me
when the sun
sleeps under cover
of evening hills. Where
soft sheets shroud our sight,
yet letting our feelings softly in.
Within our blanket bivouac, we are
buffered from the bustling world. Trusting
only touch to slip through the covering cloth,
silencing lying eyes. Eyes surrender gladly, leaving
fingers to trace forgotten pathways. Our skin remembers
what hasty eyes brushed aside in passing. Forgotten now are
smiles, frowns, and doubts once misread by sight. Kiss me now -
while the sun sleeps beneath our veiled skies. Kiss me through cloth-
to feel what eyes forget, forgo, let go, without the joyous sense of touch.
SALMA
She was unlike your ordinary gal
She was classy pretty and petite
She had an ensnaring personality
She had all the sort curves so nice
She had me imagining quite a lot
She made me go gagas and gigaga
She was a bat to the co bi oriented
She loves me in her own unique way
She made me forgo alot in persuit
She made me yearn and long for her
She was content to my touch n feel
She is that girlie love never forgotten
She was all the essence of Angelica
She was an angel in human skin see
#Salma254One4Luv
Bare foot walking on a primeval beach
Before people, (it was just 3 o’clock,)
Balance hunched with longer stride
My feet made indentations in the sand.
With each rising step, my prints
Filled with toe-sized ponds and heel-sized lakes,
A tidal microcosm of a pulsing beach.
Life before people after all.
Far away, I saw a scrap of white
Propped against escarpment rock.
Assessed as some precious speck,
As so rare a thing so often is.
Already grains of sand had worked
Between my sandals and my soles.
Curious, I strode towards it,
To more closely see.
A sign of white posted my accidental crime:
Turtle Nest
Do Not Disturb
As easily saying, “Forgo knowing to let things be.”
Pirate boy stopped by one day to try out three of my teas
He especially like the ones that ended with some sort of berries
boysenberry, cherry, and raspberry he took with him to the seven seas
his parrot was fond of our pastries, and used the magic word, please.
So, we sent him with a tin of our best chocolate chip cookies.
We read of their adventures, and could almost feel the sea breeze.
Pirate boy and parrot sent us a missive from the Isle of Carpi.
Alas, they told us, we are down to one single cooky.
That day I had to forgo school, I guess played hooky.
For I wanted to send them cookies, biscuits and a scone.
Because I could tell they were sorry they had ever left home.
They sent us a marvelous thank you note in the form of a poem
Well, yes, all the gruff beknown deny,
and ones’ own lifting oar hear mighty bombs burst
whilst autocrat hymn—
“Let cristned bombs pelt from the hea’enly sky”.
Awe! Does one shy in cheer, yes, forgo the indelible?
Or do one jeer? Cry?
Art one silent amidst nationalists amok?
E’en when in lifting ones’ own nudging oar,
yes, do hear mighty bombs burst whilst foreign babies cry?
Do one in secret loathe, yes, the moms
who as cristned bombs pelts sing nippers’ lullabies?
Awe! As the mighty cristned bombs pelts lands afar
does one disregard, yes, when mites, one's own, sever
the wings of butterflies
to garner affection so denied?
Awe, here lies, yes, barbarism in disguise…
Truly land is the free gift of nature
But women are the free gifts of treasure
Truly land do not depreciate
But women are just priceless
Men may not always appreciate
Their good deeds that are simply selfless
Land may bear more fruits
But women bear more wears
How much attention to their hoots
That are silent to their children cares
The fear of men and their stubbornness
Not enough a promoter marketing sternness
In case you still doubt your definition
You are the most beautiful miracle of God
You are a gift from heavenly abode
I not only care for you but I love you dear
For at the end of the day, you are our mother.
The most relevant documented reservation
For there cannot be a better gift than a mother to a child
Her heart is so clean, beautiful and strong, yet so very mild
The love that a mother has is so unique and so very rare
No matter how much time passes it will just never wear
She is this guardian angel sent to protect you
She will forgo the world but never leave you blue
Happy Mother's day, dear Mom.
Line of inquiry:
“What if life is a lucid dream
Borne by thoughts we ourself did stream
Wherein our designated role
Is to dance atop love’s moonbeam” - Unseeking Seeker
What if a moonbeam were all we’d need
to get us through every woe?
Oh, if all humanity were freed
to sail into the moonbeam’s glow
and worry we could all forgo!
Imagine people everywhere
embracing love and rejecting hate.
Come, moonbeam dancers, meet me there.
We’ll twirl till dawn and find our fate
is paradise. It’s not too late.
Lost to the thoughts in my head
It didn't matter what was said
The world outside didn't matter
Living life with all that chatter
All I would seek is my own name
And the voice that would maim
I couldn't forgo the assault
Because it was my own fault
I went on an endless journey
Going in circles of worry
I thought I would lose my soul
If I stopped and gave up control
So I listened to the voice of treason
Instead of giving into reason
I listened to the chaos inside
Despite it taking me for a ride
I ran away from those who cared
Reeling from the voices I was snared
I write this as a warning to a future falling
Try not to listen to the voices name calling
exhume ego
lust forgo now
let go of thought
arrogance in others impacts us not
being but meanderings of ego
operating in a narrow thought slot
which sooner or later they will let go
when lower cravings they choose to forgo
so we blow them a kiss of compassion
though for most kindness is not in fashion
faith an invocation borne by desire
desire an attribute of the ego
God-search continues and we never tire
yearning itself unable to let go
sense of identity loathe to forgo
such is our dilemma as we go on
till ego shorn we become the twice born
Ghost Rainbow
A woman rang me, she was panegyric about my poems
I smiled without mirth because I knew there would be
a question of financing, the publishing of a book I have
had high hopes for, but had been turned down too often
The woman was adamant about the manuscript
Intense Recall was art, she insisted, a mastery of art.
For one who has spent twenty years trying to become
A writer and poet can so easily fall for flattery
The woman, on the phone, said she loved me, that alone
rang warning bells, and I thought of the Fascist poet, who
lived in Italy all his life, a poet who expects to be paid
is not a real poet; I assume he, like so many other poets
had private means
The price for making me into a famous poet was not
excessive, quite reasonable, yet too much, so I have
to forgo being famous; that is ok, no one will sit down
and write lies about me
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