ivy climbs the
garden wall,
winding where
it pleases
soft green fingers
seeking stone,
finding every crack
and threading within
i used to believe
it was beautiful,
the way its
divine
green
delicacy
held on
so tightly
and never let go
ivy roots burrow
deeper than
one's eye can
see
i did not know that
something could
look like love
while slowly
crushing everything
beneath it
The Parable of a Lone Traveller
In search of livelihood,
I stayed alone,
roamed around—
at times, in the luxury of cities,
at times, in the inadequacy of my native place.
In hindsight, I tried to trace
the missing point!
I belong to none.
The parable of a lone traveller:
the more you listen,
the less you realise.
Emptiness, laced with silence.
The path of a commoner,
always uncommon!
Is life not written on the passing clouds
Shapeshifting rumors on an errant breeze
Tailoring the moon’s mysterious cloak
The fire and ice of an unsettled liege
Is she not a master of words that deny
The meaning of heaven and earth and goodbye
Conjuring demons to lead us astray
An unending search for the why of the why
Wet sands erase the sun’s sepia smiles
Leaving us breadcrumbs of love and despair
The flicker of longing we no longer feel
An aching that asks were we really there
Clouds have no mem’ry save moonrise and tide
And life only moments in which they abide
If the "Hare" really cared
To give the "Timid Tortoise"
A fair scare, and tapped
The "Tortoise's," tight-lipped shell...
Brother, I'm here to tell ya...there'd be Hell!
And, If the "Timid Tortoise" dared,
Peak a glimpse of the coming dawn,
On the lawn, who would find his head,
On the "Chilly-Willy" chopping block?...
"Hear Ye," "Hear Ye!"..."Hare" today!..."Mock Turtle" soup tomorrow!
Today I can smell,
nothing of the room.
That's all I smell in Ms. Rilling's room,
at the end of my junior year.
Truth be told,
I am conflicted,
about,
the end of my junior year.
I am happy the school year is over
yet scared about being one step closer
to being thrown to the wolves,
thrust into adulthood,
into the cruel world,
into the complex and complicated thing,
that is college.
I am worried about
how things might go on my own.
But I take a few deep breaths,
in and out,
tell myself it will be okay,
that adulthood is not here yet,
at the end of my junior year.
Silken, shimmering gossamer soft
Radial threads pulled taut
Anchor lines holding the structure in place
A frame laid out, outlining a shape
And a sticky spiral dew-soaked and tempting
As I get closer what is that, that I see
Thrashing, struggling, trying to get free
Yet chained in bondage with sticky manacles
Its dark body stark against soft white threads
Like rats in a maze running out of time
And this may sound like a bug in a web
But happenstance is rarely unorchestrated
Now if we zoom out maybe just a little
And look inward to our lives, what do we see?
Are we … trapped … in bondage by a web?
I came to tell you something,
a certain exactitude.
There are those with walls in their minds.
Divisions in their brain
separate them from the sane.
But that’s not too bad.
For, they’re unaware, oblivious
to what we accept as normal,
incurious to what ought to be,
acquainted only with the geometry
of their personal maze.
But walls of man’s own volition,
in travesty to nature’s ways,
lying heavy on their foundation;
unacceptable, unscalable, deranged walls
that immure rational men:
these are the walls that gauge insanity
and drive men into delirium,
the walls we build ourselves
brick by bloody brick.
Where can we sit?
There isn’t a chair still standing.
They now lie prostrate
with broken backs.
What are they lamenting?
Those eager children with voracious minds
once sat on them with pedagogic postures,
impelled to stoop in perverted stance,
grew into adults with adulterated minds.
But the vacuous chairs whose living wood
refused to be moved by lies
(a hazard in their parlous state)
better reduced, dismantled, axed,
no room for them in this collectivist state.
What is yours is theirs, is theirs, is theirs,
there’s no room for stubborn chairs.
But, comrade, your miscalculation will tire,
where will you sit?
There isn’t a chair still standing.
You’ll soon lie prostrate with broken backs,
reduced, collapsed, repenting.
The cars move steadily on the streets, drowning out the busy rhythm of paved slick roads. Outside, long afternoon shadows stretch across the city grid. Everything shifts incredibly loud, moving to a choreography we steadily notice until the music of traffic stops and the city becomes quiet again.
we move
in circles
racing through green lights
fast move on slick roads
the spinning world will never slow down for us
still on the asphalt we yield
then rest
On the hill He created
The ill hill that is fated
He was crucified
For His people He died
Of all and all of His creation
It was only on Earth He was displayed
To assume otherwise is waylaid
To the composition fallacy
Of the whole and pieces we see
Aliens are not salient
Evolution says maybe, maybe maybe
Married a theory, and aborted each baby
Know the truth and it shall set you free
And break you out of slavery
From apes to posterity
And rocks to complexity
The fantastic gymnastic
Implored an A.I. scholastic
And the plastic of a prophylactic
promise in the back seat of a car
autumn blossoms have faded on the canvas
shrivelled like sun dried tomatoes in the heat
cut off ears hang from desiccated stems
leaves suspended in mid-flight seem frozen
ready to decompose and become curious soil
not a still picture but a movie unscreened
once winter has passed and steep steps have sprung
spring brings new opportunities to heal and recover
what might not be lost but refuses to perish
Truth is like an X-ray
that reveals what lies beneath the torso;
When it images bones and joints,
what is hidden inside comes clearly into view.
Truth is like a DNA test kit
that establishes biological identity and traits;
When it collects cheek cells or saliva,
it traces ancestry through genetic markers.
Truth is like a test tube
that holds evidence from a chemical reaction;
When it contains a sample of blood,
it reveals the body's concealed condition.
Truth is like a fingerprint scanner
that identifies what matches the original entry;
When the thumb touches the biometric device,
the matching pattern confirms the user's identity.
Truth is like a lie detector
that attempts to expose deceit;
When it measures physiological responses,
the polygraph assesses whether answers mislead.
Mental Gymnastics-
That every day hustle of
Dodging c contributions,
Decoding half-truths,
Stretching patience past its
Breaking point.
Folks profess they didn't say
What they said,
Act like you imagined the
Whole conversation,
And expect you to bend your
Common Sense
Just to keep the peace.
I'm done doing cartwheels
For confusion.
I'm done flipping over red
Flags
Just to make someone else
Comfortable.
My mind ain't a circus.
My boundaries ain't unstable.
Mental Gymnastics is the
Sport they play-
But I retired from that
League.
I walk straight.
I speak straight
I see straight.
Let them twist themselves,
I stay grounded.
rhythm maintains life
as we dance
twirling in our unique flow
keeping steady beats
bending slow with ups and downs
swirling fast in measured steps
our dance of life moves on hopefully
till one day the music stops
will we take our final bow
smiling happily?
In the evening a frog in the pool squeezes
That is him slowly tearing a paper of the letter
Which was long time waiting for a reader
About the tempers of the spring breeze
The toad of the moon fell into the night
Alike the moonlights smoothly dumping water
For pursuing a company to the lonely spirit
Warm and tender
The evening is dark and cold for sorrow
Allowing tears no longer waiting for a breath
Touching out the temper of the spring breeze
As Soft and quiet as a quiet lady of dews
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