Rain

rain droplets
intermittent patter
wet splotches on the ground
not yet committed
to downpours deluge
somewhere nearby
an open window
I detect the strains
of guitar music
plucked from minor chords
an accompanying voice
lifts me from my reverie
leaving my melancholy
somewhere behind me
unexpected passion
comes to me this night

The Nomad Flute

You that sang to me once sing to me now
let me hear your long lifted note
survive with me
the star is fading
I can think farther than that but I forget
do you hear me

do you still hear me
does your air
remember you
oh breath of morning
night song morning song
I have with me
all that I do not know
I have lost none of it

but I know better now
than to ask you
where you learned that music
where any of it came from
once there were lions in China

When you are old

written by W.B. Yeats

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

When the rain
falling
drowns out the sound of
the nomad flute
listen to the sun
rising
in the desert,
listen to the heart,
your sitar stings
being plucked from above
and let the rain come
as it must.

I think I’m biosexual
But I’m really not too sure
There’s certain things I’d like
That I have never tried before

Friends tell me that it’s normal
And if the chance arises
To grab it with both hands
And I’ll enjoy a few surprises

Although it’s just a fantasy
A dream for which I hope
If it should ever happen
I am certain I could cope

Now I’m sure I’m biosexual
For when all is done and said
I just can’t wait to try it
With two women in my bed

rains hiss upon the skin of ground
the debris hubris of humanity
and worn seasons gifts shed
with thick winds and
gusty showers

Leavings of you surround me
the ghost songs
saturate the walls
and infiltrate my dreaming

the warmth pervades
upon the cold flourescent
light cast
everywhere my memory
walks you are there

receeding waypoint from
waypoint

Poetry Is a God Gifted Art,
Ain't it?

I commenced composing poems,
as early as eight years
When my first poem

The Truant,

Composed in a class,
was taken away by my Principal
It was about an incident,
when schools kids went a riot....

I don't remember what I wrote
But ever since I have composed
Poetry of my own
And
as you must have noticed
No two poems of mine are alike,
They neither rhyme nor chime
But so many friends,
I can now claim as mine.

the
insistence of memory is limpid time,
limping
persistent little bastard he
that waits
for sunrise,
the death blow, the almighty sting, the fraying coattail
to grasp
to cling to
to not yet be devoured

this anger for these reluctant gods
awakening from our slumber
incessant with the sound,
moving away,
always moving away

like a speeding train, its whistle
cutting through the fog and the density
of the unborn night.

From tequila, and limes
to simpler times

when we were still finding our way;

thought we knew it all
we'd perpetually fall

taking the scenic route in life's maze.

We knew of no fear
while learning to steer

flying high by the seats of our pants;

we lived without care
considered each dare

we played hard, and we all learned to dance.

We sure had our fill
of good times, if you will

and each lesson truly played with our hearts;

At the balance, a fulcrum
at the crisis, a stasis
as days and nights come equal
may you find power in stillness
and reflect as we move into
the season of night
on dreams and rest and healing
may you have them in abundance