The New York Public Library’s
A lovely place to visit.
The main branch Beaux-Arts building
Is a landmark most exquisite.
In addition to its majesty,
Exhibits are displayed,
Which New Yorkers rarely think about
When plans are being made.
I don’t know why, for there are treasures
Waiting to be viewed.
In one case, there was Pooh Bear,
Where most children’s eyes were glued.
Charles Dickens’ writing table
And his calendar and chair,
Plus a baseball signed by Brooklyn Dodgers
All are set up there.
A special exhibition
Was the draw that lured us in,
Celebrating the New Yorker
And its hundred year-old spin.
And one final must-go reason –
There’s a gift shop worth a look.
You can spend the day enjoying all
And never touch a book.
On this day in May, it was slowly turning into Summer
What a relief after a long, cold winter
My fan had become my best friend
And I loved to wake up and open the shades in my kitchen with the sun coming in
I cried a lot because he wasn't there
Left with only the memories of yesteryear
Wishing I could bring them back
And have the love and support that I used to.
Laughing in the waters of Santa Monica and Mazatlan
Like, when was young, I wanted to do.
I was thankful to be alive
To hear the reassurance of mothers
When their babies start to cry
To be grateful for my writing table
And be thankful to be able
To wake up and see the sun
And know that God's work is not done.
Like a bowl of dry fruits
There’s a motley of words-filled books
On the writing table,
And like an empty plate
On it appears blank paper,
As if penknife, the pen
In hand, the poet waits,
In search of the first line to start
And of inspiration
That has long deserted
Him. Alas Muse is a free bird,
So be the dodging word,
They elude all like luck,
You wait and left are high and dry,
Wait not, the birds come nigh.
___________________
Musings |06.01.2025| Tercet, words, poet
'hello
nice to see you again
you are still as beautiful as ever
i see the ring still
i just wanted to say hey
enjoy your time with your family
good seeing you'
i stare at her behind as she slowly walks away
she catches me staring and smiles
i smile back and depart from the gas station
when the past is through, it's definitely through
sometimes one chance is all that you will get the get it right
when it doesn't work, then it just doesn't work
you have to let things that are now.....be what they are now
as i open the door to get into my suv,
i feel a tap on my shoulder
she looks at me with tears in her eyes and gives me a hug
wishes and what was lost are all reciprocated by the both of us
without a word said, she turns around and rushes back to her car
i shake my head and smile at the fact that she still wears the same perfume that i introduced her to
i still have the 'Lefty' pen that she gave me sitting on my writing table
i guess those are our aids of thought
i leave the gas station smiling
"Thou art That" (Chandogya Upanishad 6.8.7 of the Sama Veda)
You wanna know what’s something you are not?
It is that easy. Take a piece of paper,
divide it into two parts with a pen,
entitle the left side as “I”, the right
one – “It” and then think twice about who
you are. A mate? A son? A spouse? A father?
Etcetera. Write down them on the left
and think again. What’s It? A pen? A paper?
The writing table you are sitting at?
The house you’re living in? Write down
them all on the right side and then cross out
the features which are neither You nor It.
Is “I” of you entirely determined
by features “man”, “taxpayer”, “citizen”?
Cross features out. Cross out everything
that’s not the real Itness which includes
all sets of Its throughout the universe,
reducing both lists until just “I”
and “It” remain. Read the result aloud...
Hm, I am It. The rest is I am not.
01.08.2019
Something I Am Not Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: craig cornish
Around the Laptop
On my table
As if garbage dump
That is useful to me
As a worm in it
Opened and a half or a few page read books
Written notes never completed
As if a lunatic asylum
Without treatments
Left side and right side
The things my hands easily catch
Behind and under
Perhaps to be used
It is a picture of a writing table
An uncombed head that is
Always scratched
Not allow to make arrange
As my order becomes into a disorder
Untidy is the tidy in my head of beauty
That is to be harvested
As a baby to be given a birth
It is not job of difficult
To clean and arrange
Difficulty is to keep continue
My mess up dream
Until the time of ripen
When the time comes
Beauty will be born
It was in my mind and
The harvest of my dream
It has not exact time
To grow up and to bear
As you request and expect
Some crops which are harvested
Not a value and a good price
Like a poem, a short paragraph
A word of seed
To be planted in a day
When the field is fertile
Until then, my table is dirty
With my mind
In that I am a beggar and a worm
Living in a poor and ugly hut
Having a scanty meals
Udaya R. Tennakoon
Taking my gold black tipped pen
Words flow on white parchment
Like tears intermittent streams.
My baby you are in heaven now.
Son you're in God's arms, not mine.
Looking down at my verse,
Before I could comprehend,
As if influenced by a spell
My paper like wings on wind
Gently lifted, flickering in air.
I shield my eyes from the sun.
A hum heard, as I turned to see
My penned words on parchment
Laying back on my writing table.
Golden flecks dusted my verse.
Psst, can you hear me?
A tiny angel whispered.
For Skat Aces's contest, 'Angels'
Angel flesh on the writing table,
hooked on tempered divine,
lifting, blade to blade, raphe to crura,
gray flowing over white, moving fast
to quiet water loud water quiet water,
the cakes and creams and pleasures of butterfly lips,
violets woken from dusky sleep,
marigolds plucked leaf by vibrant leaf, pale daffodils
watered by saliva, words naming parts
worked together from higher orders of geometry,
serpentine salvation in the gut,
bodies in tandem transit become torrent,
become ecstasy.
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