The Unwritten

The pen twirls, slips into a trance:
new routine, unleashing black ribbons
onto the white reams -

Letters throb
in the crumpled hearts of paper.
Unsung melodies, beaten blue,
die deaths anew.

Lips look for words
that would be kissed
when we meet.

Eyes ink the face -
a letter never put to paper.

Shh.

The better word occurred a dream
and I longed at dawn to rethink
its meaning. And whether I
could invent a meaning
for a sound that
said 'Shh'.

Fire from Rubbing the Stone

Let us empty our sacks of choke tonight -

drain the heart; let rhymes flood spaces we own.

And knit then my breaths to your flute; ignite

music that's life; fire from rubbing the stone.

Inspiration. Our new moment.

Let us black this happiness.

Some new couplets

furrowing the grounds of destiny!

Unruly, my breaths from our last last night

are now wanting your tame game once again.

It's time for forgetting about time, come!

Let us empty our sacks of choke tonight.

Trickle

Trickle.
Stain waywardly
my new robe of patience;
become a possibility.
Tickle.

From Behind the Bushes

From behind the bushes, a lake
steals me. A steely gaze,
haste; the taste of poetry -
I'm read, turned red.

What prowess, your stillness,
quietude! A sparkling blade,
you shear me nude.
You watch from behind the bushes -
rude!

Still stalker, snake -
from behind the bushes, a lake
deals me a poem.
Unchaste!

Pink dawns and grey wait -
who knows the weight
of a lake?

The definite indefinite,
your deafening silence
and the blue behind the bushes -
always watching,
wallowing in my redness,
you shower deadness
and a vision bring:
love's coffin in the offing.

Blue and Cold

The dawn's a corpse, reeking of memory -
blue and cold, it stutters with the crisp leaves,
suicidal at the hands of reverie.

Nothing dies; nothing abandons the yoke -
blue and cold, time leads new discovery -
uncoiling every time the same joke.

And where are we to head for every
road is blue and cold and so old, old, old!
Lost sense is heard a croak, but savoury.

Holy

What am I? Just one of your strings.
One of the many things
you tickle into life.

So gratifying,
losing myself to your fingers;
getting caught into a sway -
living, mellowing and dying,
all in a musical moment!

This being an instrument to love!
The drape of every meaning on me
is nothing but the sacred lisle
of love.

Play me.

Holy.

Dead Wings

All the flowers were but birds with dead wings -
betrothed to the ground, flaunting the green cords
that rendered them legitimate and true -
they were to be seen, objects and subjects.

What was the sky to them - a disruption?
Erupting red like the fires that wed them;
carrying the weight of dew drops upon them -
they knew that one cannot marry the sky.

So they looked up to the bland nothingness
and in it they saw themselves getting stirred.
They invented their trance and smiled awhile:
to be contained in the dervish's circle!
One last act of their infidelity.

Ikebana

Love has branched, an unruly poem -

the moon has dwindled in its clutch.

Soggy, cracked, it hijacks our eyes -

yellow leaves, we're carried

to its hollowness.

There's a storm, a storm,

swiping the time away,

sweeping us like dust

into the aperture of our Universe,

the moon.

Are we going to settle two gypsies,

laurelling the wind

with our being?

Cut, bent, tilted and torn,

coloured, looted, wilted, shorn,

will we be shamed (tamed) into beauty?

Our souls are being pared

by the spades of separation -

maybe we are to meet in transit?

Two stems singing a design,

too simple to be true.

A Chance Pilgrim

I have been a chance pilgrim -
swapping stories with destiny
to be led to you.

Never halting
at your sacred threshold,
never needing to consume.

Never trying to remember,
I walk across this town
where you dwell.

I have no souvenirs,
but my happiness has stayed.
I have been a chance pilgrim.

Lately

Do you know I've been drinking lately -
pouring into the window, a black street,
gulping with my eyes mansions stately;
sipping all your sins, swallowing concrete?

You know, I'm drowsy with discovery -
finding you everywhere in the nothing.
Do you know I don't hope recovery
undoes your beautiful spell into something?

What sickness is life, what bestowal, death?
What saturation, never having owned
your lover; drinking but an absent breath?
The moans of your silence have had me stoned.

Tone - deaf, this heart of darkness only stings,
stings as it sings us, two separate strings.