The stones on the patio are weathered
and ground, and the door that creeks
welcomes. The ceiling was measured
for other times, other heights,
and the floor is used to heedful steps.
Old tables and chairs disarm fashion,
have a style of their own:
haute couture of past culture,
their vogue is vintage.
I can live with the broken vase
which was worth repairing.
It knows the meaning of longevity
and in it the cut chrysanthemum
refuses to fade.
Those pans were new once,
they knew once the taste of mint,
but since have aged and mellowed.
Noblest of all are those objects in wood
whose handles have felt
the favour of oft-use.
Their polish reflects the palm.
I favour the works of the past,
the time-worn customs and lore of folk
whose venerable hearts
know the meaning of bosom.
I am a collector of dents in copper,
of meaningful scratches in tin;
grooves, furrows and notches
that count the years;
and faint wounds
that objects keep hidden within.
Living in the concrete jungle of the city’s thermal island
My five senses were stifled to almost lifeless and bland.
To perceive if all of them are still lively and working or not
I went from the city to the luring lap of nature I nearly forgot.
I trekked in the high Himalaya along the Tista river valley
Floating fragrance of spring flowers I smelled enthralled me.
The murmur of cascading streams on rolling boulders I heard
Pristine nature’s sound of music mingled with the song of bird.
The clumps of cloud curled up the valley soaking the green
My body mellowed at their soft touch seeping through skin.
Up above tree canopy the clouds melted in cool crystal rain
The drops were like elixir of heaven my taste buds still retain.
The crimson sun painted gold on Kanchajangha peak at morn
Beguiled and awed, I saw the Himalayan splendor being born.
I was then hovering in the gorgeous feeling of grand ecstasy
And realized content my five senses still survived within me.
All of my life I have been in a race it seems,
as a school girl I wanted the best marks;
to be the top,
this was my goal.
As I grew older I chased a golden reward,
in dance class I needed to be a star:
in writing I want that first place always,
that hollow sanctified, coveted by others, place:
to hold a fake gilded trophy.
But, now the years have mellowed me,
oh, a few wins;
in contests is okay.
Gone the need to sprint to the top of the mountain,
to be held in the spotlight and adored;
gold is just a color,
not a basic need.
Oh, no more marathons for this girl anymore,
I walk slowly, peacefully through life's paths:
the golden allure is nature's glory,
a halcyon sun a blessing;
I feel anointed by God.
What of a challenge you may ask ?
Well, peace is my choice,
and who could ask for more.
I came seeking a child that was born a king.
I have strayed, beguiled from my undertaking.
It was a binary star that I chose to follow,
one path leading straight to Him,
but I sought the brighter glow
and became a wondering pilgrim.
My star led me here through circuitous routes,
through pleasurable meanderings
and gratuitous pursuits,
crossing mellowed valleys and honeyed springs.
I have smelled the flower of travellers-joy
and tasted the heady fruits of the vine.
I have eaten and drank till I felt cloy;
sought fun-loving company, avoiding the saturnine.
Questing warmth in the arms of more than one woman,
hypnotized by the charms of their fair sex;
tasting only their sweetness, like a persimmon,
sensing not the puckering in their vortex.
My eyes have feasted on many a sunrise,
and, again, they drank in the satiny sunset.
I have allowed my mind to fantasize,
benumbed by the beauty of that distant vignette.
Life has been a sweet potion to swallow,
but time is running out, I must reach my goal,
pursue the star fast losing its halo
and find the King, I must save my soul.
I’m here now, where is this child?
all I found was a Man Crucified.
Lemony sun rose
when creamy clouds were wafting
Noon was mellowed gold
Yellow rose danced feverish
when odd birds sang gibberish
Sunshine rose preened proud
for it was her time to shine
perfumed prettily
Marmalade honey summer
in colors that become her
Feels like grumpy faces when I close my eyes.
Unflattering flour on an unflattering apron.
Sandpapered down thoughts.
Flies.
Feels like a garden filled with sand, and maybe creaking sounds.
As if there’s a ghost of a swingset.
Sticks in the grass, but some are alive.
Growling, chomping apple pie with teeth.
It’s all grandma’s house,
Weird bugs, sticks coming to life, torn up scarves.
The vases in the closet.
She used to live here by herself.
We had said for years the same pestering stuff.
Even the willow tree snapped at her.
The feeling is as familiar as gravel in her driveway almost flying into my eye.
I think 92 was it.
Feels like her apple pie spattering near my burning feet.
Flies.
The mellowed out wallpaper.
Hair.
It was the night before her 92nd birthday.
I said “92 is coming for you,” in my sleep sometimes.
Would wake up with flour in my eye.
A feeling like apple pie slobbering on me.
Feels like grumpy faces-
Not grandma’s but her childhood friend in my double vision.
She knows what there is, over there in the light…
Flies…
…eating a Juicy Apple Pie handmade by some stranger.
The vociferous George
So, here we are, it is ten in the evening
And I have my glass, nay, glasses of red wine
I'm thinking of George Galloway, who
I must say he has mellowed since he left Britain
His voice is less strident; this evidently
caused by his love for his wife and living
Abroad is culturally good for him
But do I detect a slight drift to the right
barely noticeable, but I have noticed
Could it be because he is influenced by X
that some of X, readers have made him
a moderate? No, I refuse to think ill of him.
A teacher by choice, a poet by chance and a wife and mother blest
Sensitive to such extent that even others’ misery moves me to tears.
Time has mellowed me, still like a child, touchy and itchy.
Where's the Crooner with his smooth,
intimate style
singing sentimental songs in a soft
smooth tone
quieter sounds and wider ranges
complimenting the sounds
which two are unique and customized
fitted
orastratas fused with a band
tandem collaborative grooves
crisp trembling edges
and a strong stern bassy mellowed
rumbling causing us to move
to the groove
People closer together are more
prone to form a relationship
then those further away
lean on your lover
hold on tight
it's real it's right
something way more
special.
Exploiting the proximity of
being together
fully comfortable
soothed to a relaxing coolness
“Dead leaves do not cease to exist. They live in another form, may be as nutrient to quicken another life. That way, every death is a doorway to another life”. ~ By Poet
Last leaves of the ancient maple, yellowed and frayed,
Fluttering and dancing silently in mellowed stillness,
Nose dived into the burnt sienna ground below,
To become fodder for the saplings of spring.
You ask me what am I wearing
A heart full of hazel hope
A silver spirit daring and cherry caring
My mind is not blind to green ghosts I’m carrying
For teal time has designs of destiny I’m ferrying
I wear ribbons in my hair
The colors are significantly there
One purple for my lupus flare
Three pink for breast cancer share
One black for the fact Black Lives Matter
Brown for ancestors whose prayers are scattered
To the four winds despite sins of slavery
The brown ribbon given is one most dear to me
Red for ed as education is a neon need
Green as in collards for scholars to feed
Our kids in school all need to eat
Stop playing the fool make meals free
Blue for the souls battling mental illnesses
For many the truth is a battle with brilliance
Yellow for the mellowed heart of the missing
Orange for the natives and the real thanksgiving
White is for the lives of victims of drunk drivers
Lime is for all who serve and what they died for
Peach is for peace I hope the world will know
Clear is for you dear and whatever burdens your soul
I wear these ribbons like sky wears rainbow
I pray that we find our path no matter where we go
Sculpting tinges periwinkle, eventide paints on arc of ruby skies,
Sunset dreams of freezing eve, longing warmth of moonrise;
As realms gelid waltz, where light-beams with shadows dance,
Shuddering boughs, quivering vistas, swaying barren expanse.
Prairies frozen glimmer, resplendence of pristine falling snow,
Where decaying colors of fall, in remnants of autumn glow,
When twinkling cosmic rivers, on tapestries of Milky-Way flow,
As frosty moonlight glistens knolls, of shivering terrains aglow.
Quietude dwells in grip of winter, where lakes and rivers froze,
Where beauty shines reflecting light, gleaming blustery woes,
Of shorter days, of time glazed, mellowed in golden sunshine,
Ceding to lingering nights, glinting in glamor of heavens divine.
Feeding the nestlings she came up an inch-worm too short.
Soggy ink-stained signs muttered in the rain.
The old cat caught the scent of a mouse.
A cat has nine lives, a frog croaks every night, but a rumor lives forever.
Freshly crushed coffee beans mellowed in the mist of sunrise.
The silence was shattered by the roar of a mosquito.
His voice was lost in the echoes of his anger.
The snake moved slowly over the hot stone massage.
The naked truth need not be covered up.
What do you want on your pizza?
the young voice queried.
Please,
A crust not too crispy so for a mellowed life,
Extra cheese oozing love,
Generous with the pepperoni of fidelity,
And light on the sauce of regrets.
A Toast To Dr Spooner
William Archibald Spooner
22/7/1844 - 29/8/1930
Here's to Doctor Spooner
Man of linguistic fame
Though sadly today maybe
Not so many know his name.
With his absent mindedness
And sometimes eccentric ways
His reputation was established long
Before he passed his last day
To a language rich in concepts
Wonderfully able to express the absurd
He added a whole new concept to
The humorous misuse of words.
An academic and a cleric
His lapses caused him some
Distress, angst, and dismay,
But towards the end it is said he
Mellowed towards his word play
So, here's to Doctor Spooner,
For which of us have not
At times said and done
Things maybe best gorfot.
Hood gealth Spoctor Dooner
I lo sove your gord wame:
A glazed rass in respect to
The yemory of mour name
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