the rain roars
its voice threshold
smatter
on the limbs
the sure branch
the flat rooftops
through summer
winter held

this fan is an ocean
a surf forever curling
shunting time in
the thick tropic
waves burying me
moment by dark
moment

if you want to ensure
the thrill of your poetry does remain
go visit the

UNDISCOVERED LIST

AND

read as many as you can
again and again
comment on them
now that's the game

then only some one may help you
in the thrill in you to remain
okay retain,

that's all about poetry
my dear,
you read me ten times
I may once

hope you do hear!
unlike me
my dear...

Sinuous as any snake
the tendrils of temptation

Sweet frosting on the cake

Having more than you can eat
and saving some for later

Something you can't beat

Fermentation of dreams come true
Wishes almost fulfilled

but not for every man's view

Oh, what wonders I can dream
here in my solitude... my space

The milk above the cream

Safe in the mind, no one can hear
the screams of suffocation

No sound will reach your ear

Complacent in your reverie
you look here

There's a red red rain
falling on our heads,
religious radiation
circling free thinking's bed.

Note the rickety nature of its wheel,
that delusional shit you think you feel,
personal illusion takes reality's place,
delivering unrighteous hatred
for every other face.

It singes all around us,
infecting every home,
mutation in mass numbers,
an evolution on its own.

was there
hours drawn
in hot morality
an electric shunt
in mortal stunt
sheen of thigh
to knee brunt
applique
of pressure
not a brush
laid slow
like a torque
the gentle pace
to a pulsing
crush

caught eye
the sliver
luminescent
rush
through a dirty lens
like window thrust
astride the empty
clay lucidity
of the fall
autumn borne
stillness
crept impresario
down skin raised
like mesmers
magic a
skit of static

For weeks I've been writing easily
but coldly, shielding myself perhaps,
behind a sturdy rationality,
against a loss of basic love.

Where has all the feeling gone?

Patiently I sit and smoke till dawn
(wishing I could somehow stop)
waiting for a surge that doesn't come
to help me write a poem again.

Am I getting too old to be sensitive?
Perhaps our skins get thicker
like our toenails, with advancing age.

There are rivers for each stage of life
as well as for every mood,
some run wild and full of strife
while others seem to slowly brood.

Like us they start with two joined parts
love for us and streams for them,
both begin with fits and starts
as if their births are a mere whim.

The rivers of my heart and home
spring from Blue Ridge mountain hollows
where they rush and laugh with foam,
their pools dimpled by evening swallows.

Lost in a mire of vomit
cascading hair hangs in drabs
yesterday’s pajamas
have forgotten what day it is

The rolling sea
lurches with wave
after relentless wave
and the light fractures
a rainbow of tears

Sullen nights stretch
into half lit days,
shadowy afternoons
are haunted by dreams
of sunlit beaches
and Tuscan ghosts

Dragging a towel
a change of pajamas
into the breach,
I am cleansed

But I still feel
like death has
me in his maw,
shaking...

George Bernard Shaw said

"The reasonable man adapts himself to the world;
the unreasonable one persists in trying
to adapt the world to himself.
Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man."

I have also swum against the current
all my life
even though I ain't a swimmer
yes
et all breathless!

Many friends fall by the way side
as I alone stride
the world takes a pride
when one has gone aside

wove fingers
dexterity slender
the light like a
morning decoy

mist upon the
shine
of your most peculiar
aura
like the poplar dew
on its life stirring
in its evening voice

dusk an embrace
of your power
you slake a shoulder
to the last breath
of sun
soft like a luxurious fire
basking in the moons
powder light

your dark hair
with ribbons
of luster