Ballooner, blink in the hot air.
Wink, O noonday sun.
On the brink, is life unfair?
Drink and be as one!
Supreme being, I imbibe!
Above god and man!
Dervish, deus, diatribe!
Lengthen, every span!
Grim-faced, O my spectres?
Well, that's the way it goes.
Singulars and hectares!
Core cone, thy carrion crows!
Trammell the enameling?
O nightingale, sing sweet.
O sky above, thy paneling!
O lion, at thy feet!
Yellow priestess, ritual.
Of this what knoweth ye?
Barrel out the brazen bull!
Fling out, fancy-free!
Rhyme and riddle, rill on roll.
Drums, thy wargods beat.
Goddess of the asherah pole!
Chosen to complete!
Tyrant of tomorrow?
An image wrought in spark.
Brindle, bindle, broken bow!
Gold, fluoresce in dark!
Hone thy skill, O warrior!
Dare not to drop thy tools!
Skyscraper, art free and sure?
Toss away thy rules...
The call of the sea
I walk alone
Amid the crowds
Of unsmiling grim-faced people
And dream of turning into a white bird
And fly away
From the noise surrounding me
I hear in my heart
The call of the sea
Quiet under the moonlight
I want to see each star
Shining in the night sky
And know peace
Even as cars rush by
In their hurry to get nowhere
I ask myself
If there is a magic word I can learn
To turn myself into a white bird
Flying over a sea
Bathed in silver moonlight
Last Full Measure
Car pulls into the driveway
two doors slam.
Gravel crunches as feet
walk to the porch.
Thump, thump, thump
slow walk to porch.
Ding, ding, ding, ding
doorbell chimes its dirge.
Mother traces her finger over
photo of son.
Tears drip to the floor, as she
answers the summons.
Two grim faced men in uniform
heads bared enter.
Ma’am we regret to inform you.
Someone very near and very dear
leaves, perhaps forever, no offense
but he has his own right to life, it
just happens to be thousands of
miles away...
and so I go about my daily grind
grim-faced, gusto-less, ghostlike going
through the motions, until I feel
his message shoot through my veins
pricking my conscience and bringing
out the sunshine in my heart of hearts
Mission Exit
In the far lane
out of the marine fog,
Near Mission Road Exit-
the 5 South-
a 1965 Ford Ranchero,
vein blue
and sea bleached bone white.
The grim faced driver,
hands at ten and two,
her plum head wrap and
fingers tight as roots,
her face twisted furrows.
I will never know her.
She will hold all she knows
sacred, broken-
as real as a sharpened knife-
and disappear uncaptured
even by these words.
.
not looking to left, or right, another rider drove
straight into her, knocking her off her blue Yamaha
and out into the asphalt sea,
then…looking quickly round, (for steam rollers)
she jumped up, like one of those sea-gods in a
Japanese movie, slashing the mountain of stares
with her katana... those grim-faced drudges who’d
never erred themselves: and she shone her light
back at them, refusing to look at the ground,and
shouted out aloud,
”KISS MY ****!”
and they bravely looked away. .. except the owner of the hair
and nail boutique, who smiled as she walked her way.
Tumultuous skies of molten lead,
Ominous air thick with dread.
Rotation begins its deadly dance,
Nauseous swirling spurring its advance.
Allied together hail, lightning, rain,
Drop from the sky with thunderous refrain.
Out of the clouds the funnel descends.
Whirling dervish hits the ground,
Alarms go off, sirens sound.
Raging monster churns and spits,
Negating everything in its grip.
Indecent destruction follows its wake,
Nightmarish scenes so hard to take.
Grim-faced survivors survey damage done,
Strongly insisting that the storm has not won.
For Nathan D's Best of the Best contest
Who are these notorious grim-faced men
Government spies, aliens, perhaps Satan
What color shows the real you?
Pray it is a brighter hue!
Just please don’t put on that black suit again
You my friend In White Saree and grim faced
Your dresses were, as always, colorful and laced
What happened to that enchanting, infectious smile?
Where is that enthusiasm, your charming style
Death is a reality and everyone must die
The living ones mustn't be left for agony to fry
Humans are not candles that burns through the night
Tell me why widowers are not made to wear White
Why should only women this branding endure
They are also human with a heart and soul for sure
Change this White Saree and in the garbage throw
This is how a system that is archaic must go
Come to me, my love, let me teach you what is life
Your being mustn’t be embodiment of agony and strife
Give up this white coffin and wear red, scarlet and pink
The fountain of life is gushing out; it is for you to drink
Let us, like our olden days, in horizon of thoughts fly
Life’s rainbows await you; so do colors of butterfly
Shed your gloom and let the roses of your cheeks blossom
Walk along the valley of life hand in hand with a handsome
1. Widowed women wear only white in Hindu Religion
2. Saree is the dress of Indian and Bangladeshi women
In a state controlled by a fanatical militia
Fuelled by a desire for revenge,
They sit cowering in a crumpled cellar,huddled close,
Wide-eyed kids whimpering
Held tight by sad-eyed women and grim-faced
Men,muttering their imprecations
While listening to the crump,
Crump of the incessant shells raining down on their village,
Their hearts racked with hatred
Driven by fear.
In a state born out of terrorism
Hemmed in by hostility,
They sit crowded in their bunkers
Lit by flickering bulbs
Listening for the faint whine of Katyusha rockets
And singing shakily to keep their spirits up,
Silence falling when a shell bursts
As they fear the worst,
Their hearts racked with hatred
Driven by fear.
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