The guiles of spiders are designed to fetch
Life-support prey seldom of an own kind.
If wild cats hunt, it’s only food to find--
What ye call beasts, in heart hate never hatch,
Nor in hostility the hunted catch
And only kill to fill a hungry maw
In a highly held un-writ wildlife law:
Slay to survive or get slain if no match,
Knowing not else but do just as designed,
Unlike O men hunting’s thy pass-time game,
A trophy wall-mounted in flashy frame,
Purblind, heedless, ye alone hunt own kind
Thus, crowning thee as lord of death in shame
Ye write a tale of thy blood-be-soaked name.
______________________________
Musings | 08.11.2012/revised July 2026 | beast, kill, joy, men, wild, Sonnet
Note: And I am tempted to add two more sonnet endings:
To call it sport that goes to fetch thy end
In slaying lives on whom thine own depend.
Till one day Earth twirls inverted thy claim,
And he who thought him hunter turneth game.
Written: May 20, 2026, for a contest sponsored by Silent One
1st place contest winner
*******************
Beneath the bastions of broken time,
moss-mantled memories murmur,
their whispers wound with winter’s weight,
their petals powdered into pale oblivion.
Yet in the orchard of absence,
where peaches perish and ivy coils,
my pulse still pounds—
a prayer pressed against the prison of stone.
Love lingers like lightning,
longing to lance the dark,
to carve a chorus from the cavern,
to kindle kisses in the kiln of night.
I long for honesty heedless,
for a heaven where truth is not tied down, where pledges aren't cloaked with
conceit,
but breathe, naked, unbroken.
But solitude sings its stubborn song.
Shields shine,
sanctuaries stand,
roses rise unseen,
Their perfume folded into lost air.
Knock, if you dare-
Not to conquer,
but to hold.
Bring birdsong, not battle.
Bring tenderness, not tyranny.
I will glimpse—
the sanctuary of passion,
the grace garden,
where every rose
radiates with the elixir
of its existence.
miser
cheap, selfish
hoarding, saving, concealing
money, supplies, jewelry, credit
spending, wasting, cluttering
heedless, selfish
spendthrift
Soft smiles and a touch of feather--
How warmly they hugged each other,
Smiles trying to shame dawn,
Veiled daggers all but drawn,
Hugs they were but of dress
Meant to impress the press,
Mouth playing a sweet bin,
Mean thoughts racing within,
E’en daggers laughed in draped leather.
Heedless still they hail on
Heavens, all world to con
With wry smiles and touch of feather.
_____________________
Happenings | 23.12.2025 | dawn, embrace/hug, humour, smile, limerick
Note: A lot of world leaders meet these days seeking a way out of the raging conflict--a lip service meant for digital eyeballs. The way they meet each other is full of drama as this limerick tries to convey.
Apocalyptic riders, riding hard,
pressing, pressing on us
as they come -
how long will they ride
before we all are overcome?
Why do so many
to the horsemen four succumb?
Too many, like sheep, heedless have become.
Anti-democratic and scapegoating leaders
have ruled over us for decades.
No. For centuries!
Wars and misery they bring.
Why don’t we turn the tables
and lock them up in penitentiaries?
Why imitate those liars
being money-hungry,
allowing them control
as we follow ever dumbly?
So few are those who dare step up.
Lonely is the Silver Surfer and Fantastic Four.
A shout-out to humanity -
your courage I implore!
Turn the tables. Turn the tables.
If we’d but take a stand -
think of how the world could be.
Like the Dharma -
It could be so grand.
Let us all together band,
and let Aquarius shine with peace
throughout each and every land.
Organ donation is... to abduct the offspring of the heedless world..
On fair ways of life what can wind not,
Counterfeit coins their way can find not.
Your shadows do if find the sun strong,
Sure, with me the way would ye wind not.
Hardships hover on all human life,
Sans tough tests man’s today defined not.
How will ye change the ways of this world
If the set-in-stone kind, ye grind not.
Even on chasing this heedless time,
Today nor morrows may we mind not.
How strange--maybe this is His revenge
That fair fruits of deeds man may find not.
Is it fair, faulty, gods only know--
Ways to cheat self have they divined not.
It’s justice that those with wayward ways
On straighter ways their way can wind not.
O beware, coins may be out of way,
To ban notes crooks would be inclined not.
__________________________
Ghazal |04.07.2025| people, life
Note: The poem is set in anapaest meter.
ppe
h a ars
fis unn
lly oti
jel ced
r f i g i l s l
d i t n a m e s y
u h p a Z
n e r p A
t e e p P
i d y e !
l l a
e r
s s
s
until heedless prey appears - zap!
“Love can change a person’s life, leave him breathless, either building him or breaking him”~ By Poet
* * * *
Cupid the great archer,
Shoots his arrow heedless!
On some, it cuts through the heart.
On some others, it only scrapes through.
On a few, it misses the target.
Once shot down, it leaves one breathless.
Heart trumpeting, shifting from one beat to another,
Rhythmically, making it pound quicker.
Opens in one the inlets of pleasure.
It makes one ecstatic and foolish,
With thoughts disjointed, emotions running amok.
Spirit confounded and compounded.
It is madness, a pleasant kind of madness!
It comes and goes, leaving one breathless.
Guts highjacked by anxiety or ecstasy,
Always in throes of a pleasant ache,
Making the heart run a race, keeping one on his toes!
Love starts differently in varying intensity,
But it ends in a familiar way, in the same manner.
The sweetness ends,
infatuation dies,
sour taste lingers,
boredom persists!
heedless sky above
clean crystal mirror below~
vagrant clouds float through
In a dream
being chauffeured
to where? I do not know
where? the silence stifling
still as the night,
stars glowing…
but the chauffeur, driving
heedless to my faith –
Jesus is dead, he speaks
like a bullhorn
going off in my mind,
grief surrounds me
but the dream comes to life…
“He is ALIVE!”
I say it, my voice amplified
WHO IS THIS MAN?
my mind enters the war
with his spirit – evil words
a dark that won’t heal
a world filled with sorrow
pain and so much horror!
“HE IS ALIVE!”
my voice doesn’t tremble
I am at war, the shield will defend me.
“He is ALIVE!”
“He is ALIVE!”
“HE IS ALIVE!”
And, that is how it ends
I wake up, speaking, announcing
to the dawn…
He lives and so I can smile!
the chauffeur is a liar…
His love invigorates my life
His light flows through the dark,
quieting the fears,
wiping away the tears
He’ll always be here – always
He is ALIVE and I can survive
because He is mine,
this Jesus who will never die.
Oh, how that chauffeur lied!
KODACK BLUES
Up above me is an empty sky
Tonight, I miss you, but I cannot cry
I’m travelling like an explorer’s ship
I forge a smile but don’t give a flip
Nighttime calls me and I wonder why
Do you see me drifting
Don’t I look so sly
Neon lights give me sights to see
And nobody can play a fool like me
Heedless hours on the telephone line
I’m doing well, hope you’re doing fine
As we sit with our hearts intombed
Feeling nothing but impending doom
Forget the passages that turn to dust
Remember love is larger by trust
Am I a wounded warrior in a useless war
Running fast to catch my falling star
Muddled in my memories with my heart on fire
Can’t stand the truth so I settle for desire
All we settle for is less than life
And we’re looking at time like it’s got a knife
Tonight, I miss you
But I cannot cry
Up above me is
An open sky
DENVER 1992
It's Valentine’s
think hearts and
roses she said --
roses she prefers
so like herself
her own gracefulness
enticing petal scent --
the blossoms she adores --
think of rapturous nights
and Roman Candle dawns
such passion as hers never
seemed to need break --
entrancing patterns of fine drape
silk dappled with sunlight
beams of arousing romantic kneading
a second heedless amorous skin duplicating
transposing quixotic embroideries
of desire and forever --
like Salome she revealed all of her
beguiling fond nakedness
making instant jello of
my rational mind -- I will never
forget...vowed we would never forget!
Damn, where was that?
and who the hell was
I with?
Oh to be young and divinely foolish again!
Once a year
in the early spring
I scatter some reclaimed
seeds
from a section of yard
where the wild flowers grow --
a reserved place, there
left unattended
how they bloom, all on
their own
where the wild flowers
bloom,
a welcome to early bees
and butterflies
the old black cat seems to like
them as well
a nestled, deadly shadow, all comfy
in a lap of blazing, garnished nature
stroked by the southerly
tempering breeze
God! he has such allergies,
the poor little beast's, watery
eyes...
yet, every year
while I scatter
he seems to dream
faithfully
Lucifer, scourge of mice!
for a budding' moment, exculpated!
as a wand, my magician' hand
glides over the the future
materialized bed
seeding memories
long gone but not forgotten
when I was also omnipotent
demurely purring
one of the wild flowers
heedless of seasons
and the sentence of time --
The gods are angry
and growing angrier.
Poseidon views his beautiful ocean
despoiled with garbage,
poisoned and polluted
by heedless humans.
He rages to Hephaestus
and Vulcan, gods
of creation, but, when angered,
purveyors of
fire and destruction.
He exhorts Jupiter, highest
of the gods, for retribution.
And now
the world is ablaze or
buried in snow and ice.
Boreas, god of the North Wind,
unleashes catastrophic winds
that fan the flames
in one region,
turn snow-laden, below-zero blasts
onto another.
Cities are flooded
or turned to dust in droughts.
Crops fail.
Disbelieve in us, they say,
at your own peril.
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