I wandered out beneath late-summer skies,
a blue so wide it felt like open thought.
The road before me stretched in quiet sighs,
inviting me toward places wonder sought.
A compass rested lightly in my hand,
its needle trembling as if it could feel
the pull of distant paths across the land~
those whispered routes the heart keeps half-concealed.
I followed where it pointed, mile by mile,
past fields still holding sunlight in their seams,
each turn a question, each new step a smile
that rose like wind through half-remembered dreams.
And when the day leaned softly into night,
my wandering felt shaped by blue-tinged light.
It's been some time since I've last written, staring at the sky while the clock reads 12:37.
My eyes wander, jumping cloud to cloud through rays of moonshine,
noticing holes in the floors of heaven with gleaming eyes.
Stars that twinkle.
Rip Van Winkle? The Time Traveler's Wife?
Thoughts run through my head.
Another ponderous night,
while crickets play music under the moonlight.
Government owls generating hooter calls
as I lay here in the dark.
The wonders of God keep my soul in His Light.
Making repetitive decisions.
Stumbling once more
into this drug-addicted trap,
lost thoughts begin bleeding out
on paper.
While those forgotten run overtime
beneath the subconscious,
in attempts to illuminate
what my eyes cannot hide.
This never-ending shift
in the revolving door of emotions and morality
leaves me without breath,
somehow still breathing.
Cut open is my flesh,
as rogue thoughts crash like waves upon the shore.
Restless is my mind,
while eyes lock in a steady haze.
The dryness in the air
causes blinking eyes to wonder
how most lose their sight.
Not many stop to ponder.
To live faceless
in a blinding world.
Hearing the pain
in another's song—
we must be related.
Having poured out all of oneself,
questions remain.
Was it ever love?
Or always lust?
Voicing these realities
becomes like a temperature
too hot to touch.
Unable to unsee
what has become fragile,
while I became careless.
The mirror reflects,
a winter scene of regret,
inside home is cozy . . .
In thoughts I wander in time,
as ruby lips kiss his face . . .
José! Your mind of lofty, lucid flow,
Reputed justly for its logic strong;
In every case, the course correct to know;
But then that day, your plan, it was quite wrong.
Full well you knew an idle pawn is vain;
You knew, and surely others must have told,
A knight in distant corner keeps no gain;
But knowing that, the fatal plan took hold.
Too wandering way, too puttering on the path;
Too little eye toward the gathering storm;
Too little care to cold and crushing math;
And so a spirit sank to Soviet form.
An hour or two upon that game you spent,
By which a light on all of life was lent.
Psychosis cuddles with the far-off.
And grumbles.
In my face they shrieked like slop.
And globs of truth.
I’m multiple.
Struggling in this desert.
And then “further” grows.
Crumpled like secret codes.
Psychosis made me walk 10 miles.
It was the nearest gas station.
I’m multiple.
And we grumbled.
Makes me far-off.
The only thing that’s constant.
Is not remembering last Wednesday.
How dashing.
When the final sun begins to fade
And the nights forgets to turn to a day......
I wonder at the continuation of time
have we worn out our welcome?
is the universe spitting us back
pondering this keeps me from my own problems
is our civilization about to become historical
like the Mayan and the Aztec cultures?
when night forgets to turn to day
it worries my imagination into hyper-drive
That hazy space you find yourself wandering to between blinks,
It is not fog between your ears.
You will not get lost in it,
Become stuck in it as a fly
Is caught in a spider's pale lair.
As boots are buried in a sudden quicksand.
It is not your damnation,
Not an indication that this is as far as you go.
That the footsteps behind you mark both
Your past and future, and in front
Of you is all cliff and no ground.
It is your playground
It is your arcade
It is clouds soaring above a gray globe.
It is a symbol for pen on paper.
It is ink on canvas.
So embrace it.
Twirl your fingers in it.
Feel its grainy texture run between your palms.
Let yourself wander in it.
WANDER
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
wander wide
heart unbarred—
let the universe
wrap you
in its embrace
I wandered on streets of that clumsy city,
Like a cloud that hangs below the sky,
And sits over the hills, dull and so heavy,
Then it breaks into tears silently over the night.
The glowing moon stretched through to the dewy grass,
The crystals shone, the ghost town streets' lights,
My stealthy steps tapped, and maybe echoes of breathe,
Amidst a dense thunder of inherent thoughts.
Dense masses flew and hugged with a spark,
Like shooting stars; bright and quick,
And roared; soaring high in the squall,
The city was a horror in a dark movie hall.
I jumped and jumped, but reached no low end,
My singular wish, to fly high, we meet on wings,
They scattered, larking far away and beyond,
Left still; longing in brainstorm like a lost dog.
There’s beauty in imagining great things;
It lights our dark future with hope-filled dreams ~
Visions of peasants ordained to be kings,
And plebeians crowned as queens, so it seems.
It charts dream paths lit by elegant beams.
Imagination hears each scarecrow's groans;
It squeezes water from dry desert stones.
It digs deep oceans in hot desert sand,
Lifting us from known realms to worlds unknown,
Where minds may wander due to no command.
It’s real hopes that imagination brings,
With peace of mind when sane minds reign supreme,
With thoughts that glide without the need for wings—
Yet still give false hopes life may not redeem.
I sit and ponder, allow my mind to wander
And wonder about what I ponder
Then put pen to paper, begin to scratch and scribble
Hoping endless hoping that someone will read my dribble
And then reading perhaps exclaim
“This poem deserves acclaim”
crickets
Ahh, what’s a poet to do
But ponder through and through
Then wander further afar
Find a wonder so bizarre
And purchase a better pen?
Or find a muse now and then?
crickets
Philosophical I suppose
The writing of great prose
But my reason has deserted
And my talent’s been diverted
So I scribble more rhymes
And then try to bide my time
crickets
I am the writer, reader, and spectator.
Lying down in your arms, my eyes wander.
Just look into your eyes in quiet solitude;
My tears say all in this interlude.
My small victories—chess and writings,
My journeys to places where I chased my cravings.
You see it all and understand without judging,
Like the few who backed me and keep me hoping.
I remember the shiverings of my fingers and fear.
I endure and live in moments far from dear.
I crave true friendships, togetherness without filters,
Recall my missed ambitions and my refuge in pleasures.
I look to restart, refresh, and gather my straws.
I fear to look back on fifty years’ scars.
You gaze at me with tears of compassion,
I seek refuge in you to pour my passion.
By Suresh M Iyer
As from my ivory place, in a while I descend
Carrying a piece of magic and a trace of scent
Quite a time of quietude there I spent
A delight, a light, I have to suspend.
The poet in me yields to live and bond
As I find in mere days a world to be fond
Out of sight I put my quill and wand
To humbly breathe and to life respond.
Along with my poetry, in wonder I wander
Unleash my words and on life I ponder
Bringing what is bright, and seal all that is somber
Allow beauty to rise after a long slumber.
I walk unseen, even as I get near
The brush of my words, its voice you would hear
The echoes of my soul, in hush so clear
That’s my bliss, a blessing from God so dear.
Wondering if I would have a choice
My ivory tower, a vision that has no voice
My world of a living pulse and many a voice
Or just wander in wonder and both rejoice.
Our hearts romanticize the vagabond.
To walk away from all that brings you down.
It’s true we’re free to get up and be gone.
In search of new horizons to be found.
Always snipping at the ties that bind us
And doing all you would just as you may.
Worries can all just be left behind us.
‘Cause in the morn we simply walk away.
Dodging all responsibilities now.
There’s nothing holds you down or brings you back.
Thinking and just doing as you please now.
All you might need you carry in your pack.
But this, my curse, my cross: to always roam…
Cannot you feel my loss: O! Where is home?
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