Sunlight seeping through my sash windows, so bright,
A silver whisper, anemones in oak’s light.
Piscine fins capture daylight's faint gleam,
Cormorants align, a verdant, vibrant dream.
Lustrous ebony wings dessicate, eyes so keen,
A metaphorical dusk, where crimson hues convene.
Nature’s prose, the palette finds its way,
Desultory strokes where colours gently play.
A painting unfolds, a metaphor for change we see,
Mixing up hues freely, a painter’s ecstasy.
Art, a transcendence boundless and swift,
As shadows lengthen, a masterpiece adrift.
the fins
of human
quake tremendously
spills grotesqueness while dumping
the ox cosmos in the middle of smoothly
mirrored
ocean Walls
where ones choice is fixed
at dawn stagnantly brimming
in obsolete enviable damp colours
woven in a volcanic
oasis of anguished circles embraced in
loneliness fronted
with shuttering frozen stars
moulding through a sunny cheerful darkness
reinvigorated with
strident current in
waves staring
hovering and invading through the thorns of
the barren mountains
wrapped in swings of an
encroached moonlight piercing in
the vacancy of
my enchanted soul
channeling through my so preceding exist
in steam of redolence reek
from the garden frowns
and grins
call me a piscine
but even as a sly tamed fox hereafter
I would soar on footprints of
ceaseless fogs
to unveil your gleam
leap through the reflection of
sunlight to sway you
exasperatingly siren my scales on
your prime lips
fading with a spin
submerged in a longing savory passion
My goldfish waits patiently to be fed,
he waits without moving much,
when I approach,what goes through his head?
Does he think real thoughts,or such?
He gets excited as I take some food,
and sprinkle it in the tank,
does he look on me as his one true god,
the father that all fishkind must thank,
for being there everyday,
to make sure all his needs I'll meet,
does he look up to me and pray,
that forever I'll make sure he'll eat?
Tom 11/05/2012
ON BEING A FISH
One would never choose to be a fish -
In one’s right mind.
It’s simply not the kind
Of thing that one would wish.
One’s mother would worry:
In the cold and wet all the time,
Often near the oozes and the slime:
Cold- and flu- catching in a hurry.
One can’t see clearly -
Eyes always brimming.
And all that dratted swimmimg !!
(And one can’t even breathe easily.)
There’s nets and hooks catching one;
And submarines on practice dips;
Not to mention sinking ships
Crashing down on one.
Nothing to drink except water
In which some other fish
(Or his brother, if you wish)
Has recently been a defecator.
One does one’s best in the deepest ocean,
One has no choice in what life’s about.
One takes what the Good Lord gives out,
Enjoying what’s possible of this piscine motion.