Nothing changes with hateful birds
apologies, apologies 

The cold-hearted fish with much to say
nothing constructive

Always condemning finding fault with every thought
with one you claimed to love and cherish
apologies apologies

All the money in the world, or
romantic overtones can make the pain any less painful 
like a lion in the bush ready to strike, it still rocks the senses
apologies apologies

I saw a pigeon;
I heard a ' bang!'.
There was no bird.

I saw a plaice;
I heard a 'splash!'.
There was no fish.

I saw a tree;
I heard a 'han!'.
There was no forest.

I saw a house;
I heard a 'boom!'.
There was no shelter.

I saw a Man;
I heard a "nothing!."
There was no being.

was it the perfection
that was shattered
the worlds whimper

suffer the day
the brilliant occurence
these gifts
receieved

overlay my life with
dark eclipse
with one step in the darkness
and the other in the light

I fill the vision coffers
and speak the hopes
fire
this blaze
held trust

alive and well

and yet

Ive been dead before
been lost
and been found

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song.

LIKE MADMEN, SEERS AND FOOLS

Riding waves electric
like bolts of lghtening
striking deep inside my brain
I touch upon my own madness
perceptions sharp and clear
dark knowings and understsndings
too painful for my mind to bear
my voice to speak

my thoughts and senses carry me
deeper into seeing
and like madmen, seers and fools
I suddenly know a dfferent dreaming

Of great heart-ed generous folks like you
No poem has a second draft,
Till someone points out with intentions true

Yes I give due credit too.

That I am really not adept,
At the finesse of writing,
Imaginary and metaphorical poetry,
Is known to me

Why can't we call a spade,
a spade?
It’s bothering me.
Why should I say moon,
When I mean your face
And
Why should I condemn you,
Just to field a gloomy face.

Do tell me….

Your hatred
Became the nicotine
To my
Cigarette

Addicted to negativity
Even if it
Belittles me

Your every word
Was an earthquake
To my confidence

No pill can mute
Jealousy’s voice
Only the sound
Of success’s laughter

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.

This too is hardly a piece
Yet I know you may like it.

PAST THE GARDEN GATE

pappa called me from L.A.
one day late July
it was 3A.M. pacific time
it was 4 A.M. when he died

mamma passed one winter day
I was by her side
she kissed my hand
to say good-bye

my mind cannot understand
beyond what it can measure
time has stolen the years
and I count my moments in memory and tears

I want to go home again
past the garden gate
through the side door
and hold someone I loved
once more.

There isn’t much going on tonight

that I find joyous in life

complexity surrounds my every thought

blocking my paths to problems resolve

There’s no fun in striving for success

when believing in fairness is dumb

never demonstrating justice  

with all the faith in the world uttered

I got a lot of work to do

here at Neopoet and school

I’m about to flip my lid releasing hot steam

trying to get A’s in these fall lessons