Drycicles

It was decided that me and my ghost

would hold vigil at the stone on top of the tomb

The sky was watching closely from above, what’s there deep down

Below? I did not know

If that was love or pure madness that had driven me

To assist. But then my ghost insisted

It was hard to resist the preying eyes

The white knuckles, the inviting lips.

She needed a companeer,

Somebody to hold her hand while she’d cry for the loss

Long denied, much too feared.

And the oak trees stood witness and the sky watched above

How the howling and sorrow found a word that was love,

And the nails grasped the earth that was covering the dead

And she cried, and she weeped, while I waited ahead. And the pine trees stood witness

And the moon shed a tear. Thus I dreamt in the shadow

drawing back in my head.

G.

Without a sigh connection failed in whispered lullaby

Without a con, without a trace, the Winged Butterfly.

Its eyes just bulging up above

In tearful symphony,

Her arms just aching for the love

That she would take from me.

It’s just a song of give and take,

Of silent stormy thoughts, and

In the years of Heaven’s sake

She wrought the Heaven’s rot.

Come whisper to me lullaby

No rest and no release

No breath to ease this passing hour

That pleases he who sees; a lash, a gaze, a look, a spasm

The chasm of the eye. And in his ear,

Within that year, the dreadful ghost of nought

The Winged Butterfly

The Whisper lullaby.

It’s been a while, there are wrinkles now around

Your eyes, your nose, your beautiful smile. And on the bench the

Remains of the day, will we face that? You asked. We may yet, I said

We still may. Now there’s time and there’s distance, and a rhythm for sound

And the shackles that bound

Man to beast, earth and sky, heart

And arrow.

It’s been a while now, there are boxes in memories and there’s dust

In the chambers’ deposit, full of anger and lust. It’s been all eroded

Corroded

By the kindness of angels, those devils that pass.

And on the lake the remains of the day whenst I prayed

Whenst I layed in my boat. Afloat, or just the dreaming?

Will we face that? You asked. We may yet, I said once,

We still may.

G.

Aligned, ten thousand tin soldiers, no move, no

Sound, no sigh,

No quarrel. Tonight the invasion’s begun!

Let us pray:

Prepare the flowers of the field, redden the poppies,

Train your women to cry widow, train your men to lay

Bare

In front of our heroes.

No words can describe what the human stain

Colors

Two more hours we lay

On this field day. Tomorrow we’ll yell

Victorious

No more poppy fields, how beautiful is the chanting cascade of the

Widows.

The willows.

Her eye-lashes were black anemones, heavy dark

Persephone watching at the gates

A spark shot through the glass, then another

As my consciousness faded or

Rather

Dissipated in sleep.

My hair was made of black anemones, carnivorous

Medusae, turning thought into stone, sky and air

Sun that shone.

It’s not fair, a megalomaniac picture of yet one more

Discharge of chemicals; at the shore,

A flock of walruses screamed their agonal

Mating

Cries.

Last night the snow started singing,

Initially it was just noise and riot, riot and rage

Rage and fury

That whipped through this whirlwind,

The lunar chariot driven by

Winged horses of wind at my window

Luring, securing what’s now a mighty

Fortress of Snow

The polar armadas marched below, in an

Invasion of privacy of the earth, frozen solid

Sullen it was just before cracking fragile

Crusts of ice; it was nice to behold

Even nicer to listen to their song, yielding

Words never uttered, forgotten,

Untold.

Dance with me Garam

Masala

Opium poppies and

Sofran

Bake my hopes and Wishes

Slowly

In this year that’s just

Begun.

Breathe with me Garam

Masala

Spicy cumin ginger eyes

As time flies we’ll wish

A memory

Tikka takka shards of

Savory

Tashuan recall of spice.

Hocus-pocus cayenne pepper

And black powder dark and sweet

On the spicy road we’ll meet

Dancing the corrals of gold.

Get me drunk, Garam Masala

And I’ll sing your tale of

Old.

A smile is a

Mine of adamantine

Optimism, of

Hope unchained even in

the Darkest

Place, of

Chance, even in

the Deepest

Space

on your body.

She left the other day, I stood

Silent

In front of the paper I

Would have written something

But for a moment

Blinded

I realized she had left me unknowingly

My inspiration, somewhere hidden between

A million flakes

of Snow

Now, as I scribble what I know

I realize that

As times fly

So does the memory, the will to express

What I would otherwise forget to

At the dawn of day.

She left, my inspiration, the other night

We hadn’t had a fight in ages, I would put down and she’d agree

That what was written was not wilfully

Mine, or hers.

And here is now my limping phrase, serenading the breeze

Thankful that I could be there in that one second

To say good-bye to the train, or was it a

Plane that left?

No, it was a dying bird, my inspiration, singing like

the Nightingale; for a pale memory of misty mornings

And hot afternoons and rainy autumn

And the winters of storm, with tears of devils forgiven by God

After the Judgement.

When the dust settles down on the conflict ,

You will get what is offered,

Would have bought

What is suffered

By God.

The true blessing of life is to live as you will,

Staying still, for a second,

At the wonder of stars, souls of ash, and of carbon delight,

Out of fear came the fight,

Then the peace

Then the bliss.

I am home.