Perfect Body of a Poem


O drops of me that trickle slow
The substance of my spirit
Last resort of Winter’s pause

That trickles for another Spring
I may never, unfold
Out of the fold of neurons

They are the inimitable poetry
Of the last woman, of my last year
Unfolded only by the finished inspiration

Of a lonely lifetime of writing
Unfolded, by the brawny embraces
Of mind pressing into words

With all the heart of great sympathies
O drops of me that end in blood
At last, I must give up this pen

To unfold out of the Folds
Of this humanity, will never do
There is too much to say

To ever write it in a poem
Though I admit the attempt
Was the poetic life of art for me.

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Confident in Despair


Deprived of other Banquet,
I entertained to Risk –
With scant hope to change
But nutrition of Freewill

I’ve grown slender in poverty
With lucid soul withstanding all
‘Tis enough for me to Will
Freedom by hard-work’s decree

For we are all Pilgrims somehow
Reserved for hope & charity
Sometimes the giver, sometimes
The recipient, economy is well-scarce

The value of greatness was always
In Inner Wealth, never accepting failure
Bravery, is measure in kindness to oneself.

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Last Poems


His – “last Poems”
Never felt quite complete
So he never stopped the silver beckoning

Poets – ended, with their voice lost
Unread, bundled for mediocrity
Not on record, but perished

Perhaps in a family journal
Found by grandchildren
Read for the briefest of moments

We all only but utter half a tune –
His poetry was thin-lipped madness
Writing to a Bridegroom, inside the self
Whose voice was a call from Eternity.

The Word-Maker


I write as quiet as the Dew
Accustomed then, to my private
Flower, in an accustomed inner-realm

Where I am a fictive dream
But a symbol on a page
Once white, now transparent blooms!

My words drop as softly as the stars
In less skillful melodies than before
Sorer to believe that I have a gift

The Bee of mantras is not afraid of me:
I know the Butterfly’s secret stanza-home
I race to silent woods cordially

With Brooks that laugh louder
Than the forgotten rhymes of time
I write as quiet as the Stream

Who sings of madder breezes at play
For we can only create natural things
Even in our Olympics of alphabets

Better to be a writer, than an actor on the stage –
I relate better to neighbors imaginary
Than the marketplace of the dead.

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