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There was a time I walked on water's face;
I since have given up omnipotence.
I've watched the sky and sea in dear embrace
and watched as Atlas placed: the timeless fence.

Hearts still draw like lonely ghosts out there:
the place where time extends beyond the morn.
They come to meet and in that meeting, share
a moment, true and pure. The smiles adorn
a glow that brings the sunshine out in rain:
as if to sanction love with warmth and light.
A moment stolen from their daily strain;
a moment when their fancies can take flight.
'tis in that special time that I can see
the happiness that, can, the human heart.
And not all pain and sorrow needs to be -
these moments too, of life, become a part.

Like once before, emerging from a box
perhaps old Hope will Atlas from his place;
perhaps I'll find a box that's blue and rocks;
perhaps one day I'll walk on water's face.

Unto another field

With a carpet sky and raindrop darkness looming over ground,

put a bit of grass in the clouds and kick a ball around.

If sunshine beams are veiled and watered to a withering ghost,

place two bolts of lightning, square, and make a goal post.

When hazy days enhance the ways in which to be lazy,

go run wildly through the skies; kick up a storm, crazy.

 - Inspired by a line from "Postcards from Bardoli", written by Ramu Ramanathan

A word on a bird

There was a little bird who coo'd a little coo.
She looked at  a thing and said, I can do this too.
Her motives were pure,
her footing was sure.
And so, she began, without much a do.

Her passion and her love became her drive;
her choice was never settle, always strive.
With talent and with flair,
over bump and scare
her path became the form that she did contrive.

A tin-man and a lion; a hatter and a hare:
Friends came her way for whom she came to care.
The yellow brick road,
together, they strode,
forming an ensemble rather rare.

The little bird grew to be quite unique.
Along with her mind, grew her mystique.
And so the ensemble
did trudge and rumble,
all the while, the bird guiding their clique.

Time marches on with a sure and steady pace.
The bird found herself in many a race.
And she won them all;
stood proud and tall;
vanquishing every challenge she would face.

This isn't quite where the story ends
for the road is long as it bumps and bends.
Consider it good luck
if in your life amuck
you get to meet this bird and perhaps become friends.

In the darkest night...

Look at the sky.

Though it may cry,

through the cloud,

screaming loud,

there is a star,

with all her power,

that's burning bright.

Though hidden from sight

the darkest night

becomes light

and easier to bear

just knowing that it's there.

Mightier

Would you quote Shakespeare when in a fight?

Would you use Beckett's words to prove you're right?

Is what you say important in a fit of seething rage?

Can Byron's colours paint on your personal angry page?

Are words from Wordsworth worthy of your ego?

'sit better to throw Wilde than to just wildly throw?

Words, too, in fact can take a form quite terse.

How bloody would war be if we use Lennon's verse?

Perhaps what may work is to sometimes use silence -

The shrug of Chaplin's shoulders always held some poignance -

For the power of a word and just what it can do

perhaps weighed heavy on good ol' Moses too.

Dreams for dinner

Across the bounding ocean and the open sea
are served dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.
Also, an appetizer of trust and a soup of welcome
with a salad garnished with a smile to not seem too solemn.
"Come, ye huddled masses!", cries the Maitre D'
as she offers dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

'tis the land that opens arms to folks of various kind
with the promise of greens of law and drinks of peace of mind.
They come from far and wide like ants to a sugar mound,
hearing stories of those before them - how sweet they made it sound.
The meat of money and the gravy mix of justice and liberty
are in the plate of dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

They drink the wine of wealth that makes a millionaire
or eat the bread of a taxi cab with equal lack of care.
They bring a piece of herb or spice and blend it in the sauce
to remind them of a piece of home and make lemonade from loss.
They've come for a reason: make life all it can be -
They love their dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

No meal can be called complete without a touch of sweet.
A day-long life, too, must end with a little happy treat.
A pudding made of cream and eggs and the soft flour of choice,
with a cherry added on the top, of the promise of a voice,
soothes them to a sleep, secure, in the inn of democracy,
after eating dreams for dinner and a side of hope, for free.

Midnight pass

There's a haze in the air. 

Gloria's in my hand; it's been a while. 

Floyd's pink guitar 

playing in his inimitable style.

The madness mellows

the world isn't shining in its morning glory.

Even the spin slows

as every teller slowly spins a story.

All the world's a-playin'

and every bit character's a stage

with lines to be sayin'.

Every lit window's another page.

A time when alcohol

has, every sin of nicotine, negated

and conversation is all

about pathology 'tween creator and created.

In the light

of screen-savoured glowing prisms

we delight

in spanish, french and euro rhythms.

Spanish strings

in the background; talk of twinkles from a window.

And of horns and wings

and traditions of people who up and go.

All kinds of carols roll

as they pass in the midnight's mass.

We awake and cajole

a sunny rock-n-roll Christmas.

What I felt the world needs

When air about

is one of doubt,

anger, hate,

and hollow debate;

when all around

distaste is found

and dejection and disaster

make cynicism grow faster;

when a shadow, so dark, its head rears

and the soul does tremble as it fears

that the only message one wishes to send

is for this filthy world to end

let's give thanks.

Let's give thanks

for the fact that birds still fly;

that grass is green under a somewhat blue sky;

for the fact that music lives

still and our hearts, some hope, gives;

for the tender smile

that we see once in a while

in a passing stranger

without any danger;

for the life we gave a child

who's still so innocent and mild

she weeps as the last flower falls

and is overjoyed at the koel's calls;

for the fact that we still see beauty

in an actor's performance of his duty;

for the joy in that bounding greeting

the street dog shows in the everyday meeting;

for the wonderful part

played by wonderful art

in our lives

and in our hives;

for the invention of the pop-tart;

for the late morning's sleepy start;

for chocolate and coffee;

for wine and whiskey;

for an evening's gentle rain;

for good ol' mary-jane;

for trees of green, red roses too;

for every time someone said, "I love you.".

And last of all, but standing tall,

before this world of ours ends,

let's all shout and make it a call:

let's give thanks for all our friends.

The morning after

The morning after

a regular night with a nip in the air

and dreams of the coming morrow's care.

The morning after

a sumptuous meal that followed a drink

and conversation and company's clink.

The morning after

the chilling of many street-dwellers' bones,

for which the warm morning sun atones.

The morning after

a whole day's choices and sub-conscious voices

that slowly became ignorable noises.

The morning after

a full day's toil of truth and lies

and helium plans that hope to rise.

The morning after

a silent night of truthful sleep

where falsehoods and illusions cannot creep.

The morning after

the passions of head-boards, sheets and pillows

as a healthy expression of screams and bellows.

The morning after

a story of conflicts and resolutions;

of wanton sins and their absolutions.

Tock, you lazy tick!

Written some time ago, for a different purpose. Wasn't used, and found it's place here.

I yearn in aching pain
yet know there's nought to gain.
Twisted in knots
the gut slowly rots.
Oh why do I yearn in vain?

I know the ticks of clocks
and their respective tocks.
Egyptian or Swiss,
not one they'll miss.
I'll knock off their socks!

Oh dreary second's hand:
each movement made so grand!
You think you're great
for all must wait
for you, your tick, to land!

You cannot move too fast!
I doubt that I will last!
This week must end!
If't does, I'll send
you gifts of glory, vast!

I know the clock must tick
but a week to be so sick
is rather cruel.
I'd fight a duel
to tock that lazy tick!

And I shall tell you why
and what doth lie so nigh,
that being so near
it's still not here:
the object of mine eye.

This week has truly been
among the worst I've seen:
Nauseated
constipated
and now in pain, obscene.

For I've been ill as hell
and long to be well.
You see, 'tis health - 
that precious wealth - 
for whom my heart doth swell.