Journal : Three Poems

Festivities

Gaiety all about, good company, fine drizzle
Chow spreads great, hearts free, loud people

We saunter lucid, lost in perceptions wet
Breeze blows cool by our glasses raised
To toasts joyous with joined laughters
Unmarked then, I now recall much after

Colours !  Colours !  Everywhere
Merry greets, embracing brothers
Expansive whirls to gods’ ardour
Without craft, thought
Or dark shadows …

Colours !  Colours !  Everywhere …
We meet, away I lead
To read with her again
The book long open
With my confession
On page one …

Deep, without sobriety
Merged… lit complete

When, from within the drapes
Of her tresses, she laughs
And ‘fesses :
“ I caught myself
All the time
Speak of you
For no reason or rhyme.”

Spaced full, I moon
In the glow wrapped
With the blessed one.

Spaced full, I moon
In the glow wrapped
With the blessed one.

BEAUTY BEHOLDEN

After months of unconcern
I yearn to see her again
Rouged in blush …

That glow simple
The sparkling gush.

Nothing interrupts
As I find my way
Through the noise
That people make

Past the motion
Commotion
And events…

At the door open
I halt to watch her
Raise the eye
And shoot her query
Expectant, without a word.

Instead, I soar on the scent
Of a surprised rose
And a silence
Lit in warmth.

We speak, but that
Isn’t high with me

Sitting just…
Facing the care
In smiles deep
And deeper still.

I flirt seriously
To its silliness.

Up for bye, the wave lingers…
Through dust, heat I walk into

While I get a hold on me
Resume with skill to raise
My world opaque
Lost on significance.

The game tires… it’s a race
Without real value or grace
So I go back for a moment
To the parting I feel
Lodged perfect
Spreading
Thanks
To all I meet

For, beauty
Is the first virtue
I found in my vitality.

DEATH OF A CROW

Below, on the ground
Under the mango tree

One flailing, turning crow
Looks bewildered
Gasping for breath.

All local crows
Crowd about
Congregate
Circle about
Flurry blind
Witnessing death.

The creature aground
Flips to its back
Wide eyed
And back to its side
As others poke
Bite and strike
For good old response
And goad him
To revive.

But he’s lost, losing sharply
Gaining more
But sheer incapacity
Bewildered, bearing high
The drama last, of life
In anguish and pain
But ‘thout craft
Or cruelty.

Just concerns loud
On flapping wings.

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2 Comments (+add yours?)

  1. recOveryhealth
    Jun 10, 2012 @ 21:57:01

    Very Nice…

    Reply

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