Ah, sad we shouldn't throw
the smallest joys
in the drawer of forgetfulness,
don't good souls
search for God and spend time
watching those rainbows
that change glow?
Isn't His hand adding a divine touch?
To whom do we pray
when we are left with the last dime?
It's the smallest joys,
make us happy,
it's the laughter on our faces
that create spontaneous feelings,
nothing can return to its past glory;
there's no need to run after them:
they are forever ours
in that realistic dream!
We must defend
what we love for our sake,
so harsh is reality...
when we stay awake,
it stares at us
and we pretend to be
in perfect harmony!
The smallest joys
make us happy,
it's so miserable to be crappy;
the silliest words
blend with our gestures:
it's the free exchange of emotions!
Raise my butts voice to signal dismissal
In the congregation of adversaries to blow the night whistle
Raise my butts trumpet in its entirety
In order to grant grace unto genuine liberty
For You are my never failing stir--
The reliable and blindly open demur
Fit in my butts to sit down in peace
And relax in grace even in the face of tease
Fit in my butts to learn more of treasure
And fight beyond possiblity off pleasure
For You are my reason behind my mind's cage
Dating fun and scope's limitations to age
Set up for the next class at will my butts
To view no more from the angle of my nuts
Set up the classic raiding crusade for my buttocks
To sit not cowardly in the earth and heaven barracks
For You are the charges deposited in my ability
Before thee-- thou creepy and shady civility
In the midst of the past glory
Let my butts not sit in its story
In the light of troubling care
Let my butts learn of no fear
For You are my standing Warrior
Against life's irresistible barrier
Ah, sad hearts
we shoudn't throw
the smallest joys
in the drawer of forgetfulness:
don't good souls search
for God and spend time
watching those rainbows
that change glow?
He's there adding His divine touch!
To whom do we pray
when we are left with the last dime?
The smallest joys
make us happy,
it's the laughter on our faces
that create spontaneous feelings!;
Nothing can return to its past glory:
there's no need to run
after them and scream;
they are forever ours
in that realistic dream!
We must defend
what we love for our sake,,
so harsh is reality
when we stay awake:
it stares at us as we
pretend to be in perfect harmony!
The smallest joys
make us happy,
it's so miserable to be crappy:
the silliest words
blend with our gestures:
it's the free exchange of emotions!
I've been told many a time to fan Chelsea
That my darling club is not worth my time
That Arsenal will never bring joy consistently
For all the love, time, money and energy for support
Not to be in waste without any trace of payback
Oh the so called blue; her weight put winnings on knee
Yearning of the past glory as their prime
Yet hope nothing good is for ARS. insistently
But claimed her players, maybe are distort
Keeping at heart the soon to come winnings-- back-to-back
Mortify reproach; let Arsenal shock them
That those who run never have those crawling condemn
I touched the sky, left the land
Dwindling in the galaxy, I felt your hand.
The Perseus sparkling through my eyes
The twilight fading between my cries.
Your hand helped me climb to my throne
Ornately beautiful, a kind of its own!
The clock turned by , my sorrows withered
The throne was my crown, your hand was my tether.
The glorious days passed, passed through my breathing agony
The Crown had started rusting, I heard some cacophony.
Your grip was getting stronger, my worries piled up
I wanted to let you go, the courage I could never muster.
My Thrown destroyed, my crown burnt
I am left with a heart ache, a morbid hunt.
Your hand has held me tighter since, I feel an urge
To hold it through my heart, but my tears put me on a searing verge.
I need some time, I need my guilt to seep through
But I cannot afford to lose your grip; Yes , It’s true!
I cannot leave your hand , you feel so close
But my past glory keeps questioning my roads.
I want to walk with you and not leap to the sky
I want to touch the land again, please help me try.
a weak, tiring roar~
the same one that once shook the jungles...
now too feeble to scare.
Its strength fades to past glory...
as death lingers close to claim.
Poem: Fall
Fall, you made me strong.
Made me realize, I was wrong.
Wrong were my ways, I went astray.
Went astray for fleeting pleasure,
Forgetting, my task is a treasure.
Glozing over my transgression,
Negligence became an obsession.
Utterly shunned by the triumph,
My past glory became numb.
Fall, I fall like an autumn leaf,
On the ground of remorse and grief.
You, smothered me in the toxic air
Of guilt and despair…
But then, were you the end?
My little inner voice questioned.
Fall and then rise, it’s the music of life.
A fortune in disguise, bestowed on...
More dynamic, I became thereupon,
Took you to be a wake-up call.
They say at times, it’s good to fall.
Bursting forth of will potential
When cauldron of love overflows
Makes kinetic bliss miracle
Joyous essence of presence glows
Space-time screen displays life contrast
Polarities orbit the heart
In hypnotic trance, die is cast
Delusion driving souls apart
Each entity as God-essence
Seeks to reclaim it’s past glory
Conscience as voice of innocence
Attempts to script, it’s love story
Mind-body has it’s agenda
Narrow views and self-centred stance
Thus life simple, now enigma
Looking at other forms askance
Joy transience versus permanence
Once cognised by discerning mind
Light no longer pays fear penance
Leaving fleeting desires behind
Soul enters void of cessation
The world external fades away
Each life breath, then celebration
As tranquil heart, ceases to sway
One that became two, one again
Head-heart aligned, does not resist
In-form consciousness, cleansed of stain
As ordained, becomes a bliss mist
23-November-2021
The first time ever I fell in love
It was with a people
The people were my people
Living in a country that was my home
I'd never known who I was
Why I was, where I was from
I thought I was a head with a body
I never knew I had a soul
That day, the plane was about to land
When this people, this incedible people
Burst out in song -- 'Hatikvah,' The Hope!
The Hope of my people for 2,000 years
Jerusalem, the Temple, the Weeping Wall
Yes, a wall that weeps for her people
A people that weeps for her Holy Wall
Remnant of past glory, beacon of our future
The first time ever I fell in Love
It was with a People
My Jewish People, One Nation, One Heart
Living in a Holy Land from the very start
____________________________________
Note: Employing poetic license, I have called
Jerusalem's 'Wailing Wall' the 'Weeping Wall.'
It is an actual remnant of the Holy Temple
first rebuilt by King Solomon and then rebuilt
upon Israel's return from the Babylonian exile
about 2,500 years ago.
The wingless eagle
went to the party of the owls
with his own wisdom
Intimidating the impostors
of the night
with his past glory
Exposing the shadows
of their dark indulgence
—with a killers eye
(Stone Harbor New Jersey: January, 1992)
Are we a shining beacon of possibility to people everywhere?
Or are we doomed to float endlessly in the sea of our own contempt?
Who are we?
Are we the welcoming light of hope held up on high for all to see?
Or have we succumbed to the darkness of hatred and indifference?
Who are we?
Are we the champion that seeks to set the best example for the rest of the world?
Or have we resigned ourselves to accept the requiem of our national conscience?
Who are we?
Are we capable of finding the greatness within ourselves once again?
Or will we endlessly tumble into the unquieted abyss of our past glory?
Who are we?
Are we doomed to sit in quiet desperation contemplating what once was for eternity?
Or will we once again strive to make our greatness more than an empty slogan on a cap?
Who are we?
“DIRECTIONS”
MAPS.
Folded tight
sharp corners,
unwrapped.
“I read maps” the traveller said
She wasn’t convinced, it was obvious
he’d been hauled up for years in his
“Man Shed”
“Yeah, I do, I read maps”, he said
“hmmm, you’re not a risk taker”, she said
“What?”, he said
“like, man, you’re a mouse on a wheel, forever runnin' non stop circles”, she said
“How’s that?”, he said
“You need to get out of your head” she said, blowing smoke rings in bed
"You're too busy countin' numbers", she said
“hmmm, you’re a bit Bolshie, you’re not pretty in pink you’re red”, he said
“i don’t know about red”, she said, “maybe read”
“O “F...” this”, he said, “I’m way past glory”.
“I know... it’s way out there man, let’s go to bed”.
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
“Anemone”/BJM
https://youtu.be/StV9lElcvAY
"In my sex fantasy, nobody ever loves me for my mind."
There’s a zone beyond safety
where the timid can’t go
Beyond reasoned decision
intuition to flow
Past valor and triumph
past glory and fame
There’s a zone beyond safety
—last moth to the flame
(Villanova Pennsylvania: November, 2018)
Not own dream, weak bones and falling fleash.
Leaving my younghood to a place of weakness and spinelessness.
It was like yesterday i became a man,today
an old man leaving a lot of competitions and risks Now i have become an experience narrator of past glory.
Now i sleep and dream on how to narrate my past glory to children
This handsome skin falling like a bull dog saliva.
Hair running backward afraid to face challenges.
Teeth falling down like walls of Jericho.
Sickness attacking the old skin like Legion.
Old age is the beginning of death.
So i did catch a lot of fun in my youthful days,
which makes me professor of past glory.
The comming out of gray hair is like the wheat planted with the tears.
The unpleasant voice is as loud as an ant while speaking.
The weaken eyes is an esclipe of the big star to the earth.
Is there any glory in getting old?
One day this body will become a debt
to the maggot that will suck into it.
The fly that will follow it into the darkhall,
will regreat and shed tears.
The other day violet vapours formed
Each holding a momentary rainbow
My window the lovely apples adorned
A cheerful arrow in the aroused bow
Today the painted bubbles have all burst
A huge ice in my room shorn of glory
Some insects teem in the pulverized lust
Every day is a page to write a new story
Tomorrow I’ll go to a hospital
Smell of drug disease and a house hoary
Bouquets wet in tears in the funeral
None knows what will be tomorrow’s story
Dusk or dawn, move on, says the restless time
Do not get fixated on past glory
Each flash begins a door for a new rhyme
Every day is a page to write a new story
___________________________________________
6/12/2016
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