High on a Blue Ridge mountain side
with naught but skid trail for my guide
which must have been ,itself; quite old
as trees now stood there tall and bold

Matters not the time of year
but, in fact, winter was drawing near
with most leaves reclined upon the ground
where wind lent them a rustling sound

Then a stone of middling size
caught my gaze to my surprise
there among the leaves and duff
it, at first, looked bland and plain enough

can you hear me, Lord
when i cry
sometimes, i feel like
i could die
my cross is heavy
my path dark
the wounds i carry
leave their mark

can you hear me, Lord
when i cry
i am not hard yet
by and by
i wonder if you
hear me, Lord
sometimes i do
cry to you

you ramble with his poetry
book after book
but you are not a rose,
you are not a thorn
neither virgin, nor the whore
of his better days
under neon lights
and the sweat of inspiration

crying with Orbison and Lang
the touch that caressed
you deep
in the psyche of
your human jungle

you its prey,

and you build another empire
in the dust of your involution,
exhaling the animal instinct of a poem
you are its flame, but never quite
catch on fire

This land rooted in many aboriginal religions
Long before aliens came competing for devotees
Several aficionados hold onto their ways of life
At night, seek fortification from ancient deities
Then show up for supplication on sanctified days
Set aside by the invading majority, these fogies
Influenced our conducts, three faces of adoration

we do not write about
what we do not know
the so-called visionaries
in a frantic world
savoring chances taken
mourning lost opportunities
advancing with unmatched passion
a mere reflection of our double-life

we do not write about
what we do not know
but of the esoteric
world inside our heads
of displaced bullets
or the bothersome sometimes
bull-headed black holes in our souls

Our minds are powerfull
taking us to places
cold ,dark and damp

Where tendrils of evil
reach out
to claim
a life

At times,this life
not worth saving

Spiders thread
holds fast
binding all to
sanity and mortality

Dangling on
the precipice of
life's lies

Only to find
We are not immortal

i.

as the thread continues
to weave itself
into a long-ago Jersey summer:

sometimes wild geese
lose their balance and land
ungracefully

we were young then
and the days ached
with laughter

ii

once
Buddha
lingered near the river
under a Bodhi tree,
it was then I picked up my
satchel of sorrow

my shadow
walked away

and the ground swallowed my tears...

iii.

I want to wrap you in poems
take you away from the door
you keep bringing me to

a face
your face
not just a physical structure
hard set by boney beams
but a response to life

self customizing
moment to moment

you are a drama queen
a quick change artist
in wide screen

"now showing"

a nuanced teleplay of you
read and reviewed easily
by even the new illiterate chic

no private pages
no blindfolded lines
no redacting masks
that aren't revealing
in and of themselves

Bad girls, bad girls
Whatcha gonna do, gonna do today

Steal a van from a friend
Break a car window
Bad girls, bad girls
Whatcha gonna do, gonna do today

Sell your phone for some dough
Gas up the van and go
Wreck in a blinding storm
Trying to get home
Bad girls, bad girls
Whatcha gonna do, gonna do today

Run away from the clatter
Leave the van in the canal
Hitch hike a ride with a traveler
Get home in time for a party
Bad girls, bad girls
Whatcha gonna do, gonna do today

Politics of future world

What will be your guises when you return,
can you take my mind to dance upon beaches.
Could you be masquerading at the lectern,
chasing sleeping morals beyond our reaches.

These questions I ask with candid voice,
equating your answers to be in part lying.
Loosing all command of fraternal feeling,
clinging to your words litigation simplifying.

What price the prancing prince,
who dances on the bones of better men.
Causing the proudest now to wince,
families to dream and all hope abandon.