Around the prairie, blithely she glides
Her brunette locks, her beautiful tangles
On a horse-a-riding, sweet days awaiting
Her oh-so-fragile heart beats bass-a-pounding!
Her nonage days- so real, so glorious,
No tint of blindness, her days unnumbered
Her flimsy fingers ‘round a beasty fist
A refuge she knows from unknown solace.
Oh blessed child of light
Felicity- her living language!
A spitting image- our crimson bloods alike,
But life’s a ruse of humor
Her paradise; my infamous dungeon
In those familiar eyes- my doggone days
Her iris lining an image clear
My estranged sire- he holds her dear!
she turns her hair a black cascade
piercing sensual eyes of intrinsic wisdom
what is enlightenment
i am tuning my old red guitar with dragons
is it your emergence from self imposed nonage
the strings are kind of old like my thinning hair
hallucinogenic alkaloids philosophy arrives
mind altering experience existence of souls
subsistence of eternal realms of ideas
she is platonic now quickly turning her golden
strands kissing her pinkish lips lazily mystics
practice philosophy in a pure way i laugh
she is dancing calm and happy apparition
guardians make us stupid we are in self imposed
nonage we are fearful and lazy cowards why does
she do this to me makes my heart bleed every day
dragons are emerging now demonic dance what is
enlightenment i am in the scale of c minor
I had heard of Black-
beauty
From highly learned
men
And, a twiggy oily
figure!
I have always
appreciated.
City-women walk in
style
Wear stylish and
talk in style,
A Cow-boy shall
always commend!
But I have
somewhere read,
An Indian American
poet to his
Syrian wife wrote
An unknown love
poem!
Blaming her of
dating once
A Muslim friend.
Therefore ere we
may walk together
any more,
Tell me, for instance!
Have you visited
that saint’s shrine?
There, near your
abode,
The fort’s on the
Rocky Mount;
Climbed those
hundred-fifty stony
stairs?
Yes!
Many many times, in
that sweet nonage
With grandma.
And nowadays on
almost all Sundays
In the evenings, with
my mom.
Ah! Ah!
Then you must have
Fed the wild-
pigeons’ flock, corn;
Helped the lame,
blind beggars with
coins, and rice;
In the festivals’
nights
Served the waking
worshipers—coming
from the far villages
in country,
Fried in ghee, the
rice,
And in Samovar—
Kahva!
Yes, my dear Yes!
I have, I have, I
have.
The geminy they were,
heresy to have,
their love. . .
A lifter stand to
why we reckon?
As corse sodden
as the golden maiden
of Spain. Nothingness.
The thieves,
though they frighten,
A veniable abandonment.
It meant nothing,
Key lime pie, warm
apple butter, love
and its creation. . .
and its muster.
A nonage of
retired conceit.
Beauty. . . what is beauty
these days. And
for whom to cherish?
For the daring, its crusade.
Enchanting the epic of time,
a mythological revelry.
Poetry that will open the
periapts of wisdom, intellect, and charisma. . .
are like portents of man. El Dorado.
My conclusion. . .
As Jesus ascended to the heavens,
dying for our untimely sins,
retribution, virtue, and the essence
of God. Portrayed as galliantly
as phosphorescent treasure.
His love, his being, his conception
and sacrifice for our brotherhood
of man, to cherish and embody for eons.
Throughout spent lifetimes of shared
rumination, rebirth, annointment,
and the essence of the divine.
Here to now, everafter!
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