"Poetry," the poet said, "the magic of poetry
... that which comes to you on the wind,
on the wings of birds in flight, in the ripples
in a stream on a warm summer's day...

"in the shadow of the whispering pine,
in the silence stirring to the senses, as you
laze by the still waters...clouds drifting by,
reflected on the clear-glass surface...

"in a walk in the wilds, lacking paper, peeling
bark from a birch - anything to scribble on...
oft lines not to be retained, memory lax, if
now and then a melody to accompany words,
the same, then, to linger at least for a while..

"not always a sure-shot therefore the rush
to find means by which to give the poem
some sort of permanence, the "vision" fleeting,
gone in a flash, assigned to you, yes, but only
in passing, in your reasoning, then, surely not
to be re-assigned to the ether...

"Poetry," the poet said, "you tell me, you tell me
how I shall tell you of that which so readily escapes
me even at the very best of times?"

Wounded, The Sparrow

Wounded, the sparrow, writhing on the ground,
we pause, rubbing our eyes,
swift once, an arrow, left now to expound
poets wanting, unwise.


"He who lives long in the presence
of an ideal at least becomes like it."

I am my thoughts, reflected back
into the visible world, and nothing
proposed as a counter will serve
to alter this fact.

Keeping company with the discordant,
the discordant will then precede me
wheresoever I might endeavour
to establish a foothold.

Whereas peace as my template
therefore shall advances be made
with not the slightest need
to ponder or to pause.

History In The Making

"For they have sown the wind,
and they shall reap the whirlwind."

The earth is grown tired,
weakened and worn -
such a mocking
by a brood indifferent
to a mother's loving pleas

who follow but one path - greed
who see only one colour -
their own -
who hear not the pitch
of the whale's song -
he eagle's scream -

who speak only of psychedelic
dreams turned nightmare before
they are grown

Ah yes, the avalanche of so much
snow cascading down
the mountainsides
of our many and varied
illusions -

our temples crumbling -
our empires seen toppled -
our illusions shattered -

history in the making!


Were they attuned to prophet tears
for what they are when one appears,
a mantle worn like none before
because, by God, there's always more
for them to learn, the truth revealed,
in increments, therefore to field
such deep design, as field the few,
no doubt they'd weep like prophets, too!



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