New Words Advent


Photograph courtesy of : http://www.deviantart.com/art/Into-Dust-502341255

 

35

 

Language is a flirtation

With flexibility, the mind

Empowers the image

The image empowers the

 

Alphabet, the energy

Is a conference of belonging

There is no buzzword in poetry

Poets reside in the

 

Chatroom of the spirit

It’s a captcha of lingering

Imagination on the brink of

Extinction, a cloud computing

 

Of beauty, a purist busking

Not for profit, so unlike

The Affluenza of our times

The stark money divide

 

Poetry is an algorithm unsolved

Forever like a kind of tourism

The soul’s App for bromance

A buzz for civiliation’s

 

Gratitude and ruin, simultanely

Depicting the carjked destiny

Of utopia in dystopia

Englihs is the most flexible

 

If adopting mandarin and Sanskrit

The baggravation of always

Being stuck between worlds

Or the realization that

 

Every city is a homogenized urban

Simulation of what it means

To be alive in 2020, the breakdown

Of new world dilemmas like

 

A post antibiotic world or

Environmental migrants scrambling

For new homes, new identities.

Facing Snow Courageously


34

 

I face the snow headfirst

With eyes like diamonds

For winter, I will grieve

 

In my own way, hearing

The battle cry of many

New ghosts, I will whimper

As the wind howls

And I will do a rapid

 

Snow dance at low dusk

And the stove will remain red

And my heart will hear

 

The news broken like

An empty book ready

For the calligraphy of

Hibernation, retreat, reclusiveness

The clouds of disorder

 

Of this strange world

Will not trouble me anymore

I can appreciate the whirlwind

 

Of snow ragged among

The tops of trees, and that is

Enough, tea is optional

Nature is unforgettable

The ladies seek comforts

 

But the snow only requires

A landing place, to accumulate

The white magic of another time.

These Great Horses of History


 

33

 

 

 

There is a naked weeping girl

In my heart, like a snowflake

Blessed a thousand raining times

 

Every time I hear her bronze name

Whose body was like

A thousand fingers

 

Of autumn and kissing history

These loves that come and go

Like the sweet music of

Soft birds of May, or

 

The moist valley in a pair of eyes

Our lives cannot maintain

Their whiteness, the uncovered flesh

 

Turns to a kind of stone

Where thinking the name

Of love, becomes the only song

That matters, still uncovering

 

The wilderness, never too late

The naked weeping girl

Will not rest, but dress in

 

Gold cloth a billion times

In another heart, over and young

Never truly growing old…

 

 

Years Precise as Ghosts


 

32

 

The city air is for the new year now

Old December hushed with

Her curled fingers ajar

Catching winter by

 

These carved nostrils of change

There will be no spring negotiations

Only, the scarlet feet of

Many paths, that blindly

 

Lead to midnight’s little toes

And all these wings of dreams

Made of glass and gold

Splintered as it were

 

Against a blue skied sun

Petrified blossoms of memories

We are all like innocent scientists

Doing experiments, searching

 

For our truths, breadcrumbs of what

We expected to find, involving

Migrations, errors, fortunate learning

To be who we were meant to become

 

The city air doesn’t know of our struggles

Nor does Old December care

She has her own worries and desperate flights

Still tracing the old signs on

 

Her way back home, dimmest flutter

Of favourite streets, and

The delight of being lost in imagination.

 

 

 

 

 

Messiah Complex


31

 

 

The world doesn’t need another martyr

Jesus, warm blood on my arm

Warm as a golden bird trapped

In a cage, does it feel like a dove or a hummingbird?

 

This life we sweat and work for

This chaos born of human ignorance

What is the price to bring

A brighter shine of love into this world?

 

Tell me, I’m growing old alone

This world doesn’t need

Another poet, Jesus, tell me

Sweet voice in my mind

 

O send a raven ahead of the dove

The ballads no longer sound

I’ve been chained in a cave

Let’s call it the marketplace

 

Where I barter my soul every hour

For a bit of peace and waiting for

The green branch of love

For a spring that never arrives.

 

 

 

 

And let us compare Mythologies


30

When on Christmas day I awoke
For wife and house I was met
With the cavalry of all the years
The bending flowers

And silver stains
And all that my life
Was ever or could ever become
Like an algorithm

Lost among the innocents
I decided then, to lick
My velvet wounds
And kiss my burning oils goodbye

And make with flour
The turning great treats
That in summersaults of chesnut
I ever could or would have desired

When on Christmas day I awoke
To a sleeping house
Tired from a silent night of wine
And gentle laughter

I could say that I loved
The distant saints, and happy dreams
Of all the early road’s sweet toil
My life had become a holy hill
Where all my grace and poems lay.