FOR THE FALLEN OF APRIL 24

To My Father

A serpent slithers through the window.

The horizon opens into a wormhole.

I see a lone tree, aloof, standing at the altar of God’s throne;

Breaking into smithereens – as if a crystal in a kaleidoscope.

Ever changing warping of dimensions;

My eyes cry;

My head throb;

Infinite possibilities collapses Into the Ark of a blessed Utnapishtim.…

He is my father.

Sans a few, all the warriors are deep in sleep.

The sea is dark as wine.

Screeching sirens dance with the moon.

The hostile sea gives into an Aeolian calm.

My father walks up to the helm;

Gently harps the string of his broken liar.

He spreads his eyes into the heavens …

My father was a deity;

And my mother - a mortal.

(Father’s Day, 2017, Potsdam, New York)

I Rise to Undo my Death

When the heart is broken and spirit down,

When the sun is setting and welkin painted;

I sit on the river
I drink from my cup of nectar
Pensive

I keep my eyes closed

I set my spirit free

I am the son of my father
I am the light of a billion star

Fireflies lit the garden of night
At a distant edge a dying star explodes into the seeds of eternal life

I rise to undo my own death

June, 2017
Potsdam, NY

An Ode to Trappist 1

This trumped up Earth has a dearth of stars that never twinkle

It has a single moon and that's all

O' I am nothing more than a minuscule earthling

My air is heavy with the waste of my own success

My feet are burnt

And my heart troubled

I have become the reckless GOD of this forsaken planet

O' I am a minuscule earthling

I yarn for a thousand morning stars

To blaze my eyes and light my hopes

I yarn for a thousand moons

That never say goodbye

From my sky

O' faraway sun

Take me

Into the heavenly orbit of your seven maidens

Take me

Into the striptease dance of light and life

Take my

Into thy holy water

Where

Once again

Life shall play its birthing tune

I am The Celestial Child

This little blue

And Verdant speck

A planet of wonder

And love trapped

Strings and branes

Eyes gaze from eons past

It's the outskirts of a far-flung galaxy

Spooky tangles and Earth’s doppelganger

Time is fake and LOVE immortal

I am the celestial child

This is the day

I alighted from my cosmic train

I am the sky high

I am the star bright

I shine brighter than a billion sun

I am the explosion that explodes in precious gold

I am the supernova

I am the celestial child

(December 2016, on my daughter’s birthday, Potsdam, NY)

A Note to Polar Vortex

The rose bud is trying bursting out; it's all mirth and gay in my portico. My aged neighbor who wears the proud stripes of ninety years sits in his portico and looks out into the greenness of his unkempt yard. He is happy.

My colleague is an avid skier. He sprained his ankle. His ski gears lay helter-skelter in his basement. He is happy too.

Dear polar vortex, I shall rather let you swirl forever over your arctic abode. I shall rather have the hearty El Nino come wuthering over this northern mountains. No, I shall not miss that so-called white and algid Christmas. Many of Christ's child are unclad and homeless and they suffer in untold misery. So my dear Polar Vortex, please, send your warmer angels on the wings of a warmer Jet Stream, and let's call him – 'THE SANTA'.

This earth is rife with strife.

Children and mothers and fathers are uprooted as never before.

God's children are on the run.

In the name of God, they are maimed and set on fire. They are pouring in. They are braving ocean sirens. They are braving barren mountains. They are dying in scores and hundreds. They are coming from the home Gilgamesh – the wise and the brave. They are coming from the home of Jesus – the loving and the savior. They are looking for the irenic hands of Jesus and of mankind …

Dear Polar Vortex,

Hold your cold at your northern pole.

Let the earth warm up even over that dreadful two degrees.

And let the heart of MANKIND warm up to the nth.

Christmas Day, 2016
Potsdam, New York

 

 

 

Soliloquy of a Winter Morning

Dawn has not dawned yet

This is an algid January morning

Rain and sleet

I put on my boot with spikes

I dragged the garbage can out

It was heavy with left over from omnivorous human consumption

It's just another day – another earthly revolve on its tilted axis

Whatever uneventful or mundane day it may be, it is a celestial event

If God's are over there, it is Godly

I got on my all-wheel SUV and off to work

This is a very very old vehicle

We have it since the last year of the last millennia

When it was new, it was my wife's

When old, it was my daughter's

It was totaled in an accident.

I had it fixed –

It's like an old song that one always cherish

Trustworthy and loving

NPR sounds great on FM

CD player plays the olden songs like golden nuggets

I listen to serenading Rabindranath

My wife is a singer

She puts her heart into her voice

I drive on the wintry country road

Rolling hills

It's January

It's an unusually warm January

Ice and snow have come and gone

I can see the gray grass lurking

Twigs of hardwood trees decay

And leaves – once green

Now gray and old and still shelters the seeds of life to come

Under their warm blanket

Cometh February

Cometh March

Cometh spring

My wife sings

My daughter dances

Seeds of life cometh alive

Lilacs and Honeysuckles

Birds chirp

Dandelions bloom - wither and then fly

I drive the rolling hills

My vehicle is old and worn out

January 26, 2017, Canton, New York

Looking Through the Window

1)

Tree stands lone

Naked

Winter noon

2)

Winter snow

Sudden sun

A lone deer

3)

Frozen river

A red plane on the ice

A cedar twig sticks out

4)

Boiling teapot

Icicles hang from eaves

Ice fishing

5)

Ice cover the leaves

Leaves cover the seeds

Spring

February 01, 2017, Norwood, New York

A Birthday Wish: February 28, 2017

Sun sets on the Raquette river

Sun sends its eventide blessings

Today is a day of magic

Icicles hangs from the eaves

Icicles morphs into colorful specter of stalactites

It was a magical evening

Moments sing past moments

It's almost dark but not

Twilight colors have hearkened the hues of cavernous Luray

And she sits next to the window overlooking the river

She sings of hiemal songs

She sings of the river and of the ocean

You are the ocean where river ends

You are the cloud where ocean rise

You are the rain whence the river gets its brio

And whence the ocean quench its thirst

You are the RAIN

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

My dear RAIN

To my Valentine - 2015

Woke up as usual at quarter past six

The beautiful was beautifully sleeping

Had a handful of almond, cashew, and pecan

And my cupful of sugarless morning tea

The beautiful always sorts my morning raiment the night before

Today my shirt is bright red

Today is Valentine's Day

I dressed up

I tiptoed to the sleeping beauty

I kissed her forehead

“Don't forget your lunch” - she said

Love you my beautiful

To my Valentine - 2017

It's winter and the river of time is frozen

Sun is not the orb that shines and the moon is lost

Love is perched atop a mound of snow

Hanging from the bare trees, icicles fenestrate the heart

A frozen heart; hurt and in hibernation ...

Cometh April

Dandelions fly in Daedalus wings

Cometh the bird

Birds sing atop the withered apple

Across the roof of our thirteen Grove

Moon drop its pearly dew

It's YOU

Trees abound in the mountain slopes

Luge, sled or ski

Or hike up or down at your own pace

It's not that the earth is barren or the seeds blighted

It's what you see at every step you make

It's the murmur of the bamboo forest

It's the flame of a candle that quivers

It's the ticking of a million hearts

Across the roof our thirteen Grove

Suns sings its music blue

It's YOU

Mollusk Whisper

A mollusk whisper

A distant thunder

A boorish nothingness

Blithe and alive was a faraway sky

A sickle moon and her twinkling maidens

It was a night darker than a night

Hands of an amaranthine clock struck midnight

He holds his own hand and hitherto an antalgic night is suddenly nimble

And suddenly on a narrow strip of a sandy shore

He discovers the ecstasy of night anew

The Milky Way was never brighter than this

Orion was never this perfect

And the Dipper was never better

Never had he seen the sky like this ever

For the first time he felt an overwhelming desire to hold his own hand

For something deeper

Deeper than his deepest breath

For something louder

Louder than this yonder ocean

Immersed, he felt incorporeal

He danced with the dancing twinkles of the distant stars

Full and yet empty - he sang

He sang the song of wind and the winding surf

He sang the song of night and of night’s painted firmament

He sang of the ocean

And of its mollusk whisper

A Morning Run on the Raquette River

I run past the Daedalus-dandelions

And the still-nascent fragrance of Potsdam Spring

An aroma of a certain smell engulfed my senses

A sudden gush of air wuthering past my salty neck

Is this the smell of Earth

Or of wind

Or of river

Or of myself - sweat and salt

And then came the momentary rain

Rain washed my salt and sweat

Salt and sweat slipped into the Earth

And to the grass

And to the river

The moment of rain is past

Still I feel the wuthering wind

Still I smell the engulfing smell

It’s the river, earth and the grass

I am an earthling

An Ode to Potsdam Winter

Frozen lake
And fishing hole
Rickety barn

And burning coal

Four more inch of
Ice and snow

Salt and snow-plough

On the go

Algid - so what

Sun is crisp

Air is toothsome

Light and brisk

Snow shall melt and

Mud shall flow

Beau shall beacon and
Floret follow

Grove Street, Potsdam
Has its glow

Nosegay yonder

So you know

She is Yet to Catch Her First Fish

“You can cut all the flowers but you can’t keep spring from coming (Neruda)”. Thus spoken she turned to her friend and said, “It’s spring again, the Earth is like a child that knows poem by heart (Rilke)”

She sat down under the thin shade of a cotton silk tree.
She is angling …

A chirping bird nibbling at the bosom of a blazing blossom.
A sudden gust.

A red flower drops at her feet.

She is yet to catch her first fish

When it Rains

(1)

It’s raining. After a week of sweltering heat, it’s a God-sent. Newly sodded bermuda will root well. It’s raining cats and dogs. We sip into the cups of morning coffee. It’s raining. It’s raining horses and elephant. It’s a dance of the gaily rain falling on the creeks and rivers and oceans. It’s a dance of the singing wind - a torpid wind with wings on torment. It’s the wind and the rain. They clash and coalesce. They touch and hiss and kiss. They make singing a song, and dancing a dance.

I twine her wet wisp of hair into mine

Raindrops plays its playful to and fro

I twine her lilac chiffon into mine

Raindrops plays its playful to and fro

(2)

It rained and the earth is lush with vines. Grapes are hanging still - still like a wailing drop of a painted tear. Venom slithers in her gorging xylem. Indulgence …

(3)

Ginger touch of a gentle finger lifts my hair of unkempt sin.

I look up and look at the midnight moon.

Trifling though, I indulge in a delusion of grandeur.

I look up and look at the midnight moon.
An oscular sin of a gentle touch.

I look up and look at the midnight moon.

It rained.

A sweet smell of earth has suffused my total being.

The Other Day

The other day, the sun was shining. When the sun was gone at eventide, the moon was not there. The stars twinkled. The rain came. It was autumn and maple leaves were kind-of-crimson. In the midst of pouring rain, I heard the leaves fall. A parting. A murmur for the morrow.

When the eyes don’t see and the heart does not murmur, one must watch the mountain letting its pebbles go. Pebbles rush down the brook. The water dances. A maiden walks drishod over the pebbles. It’s like Leonard Cohen lamenting and celebrating his age and his age-old-days.

He is on the go …

Diary of a Winter Night at 13 Grove

Driving home at dusk, I saw three deers lost in the evening sun on the frozen snow. Spring is here, but nope, of course, it's not here. Waist-high-hills of snow is still waist-high. Spring is here, they say …

My dear wife, there is nothing much I can do other than taking a plunge in the frozen Raquette River, for it is cold and empty at 13 Grove. The other day I saw Li in a meeting; he is still longing for a date. Anyway, today is cold but sunny and crisp. The day is little longer and I miss the evening ride to Hanawa or to the bylanes of heaven only you shall know.

It’s almost four in the morning. It’s snowing lightly. I put the garbage and the recycling bins out. Small town emptiness at this small hours of Tuesday is overwhelming. Down the road I saw a dishevelled Chevy slowly pulling out of the hospital parking.

Taming of the Sea

Drenched by moon and a pouring rain

She tiptoed into the blighted blithe of midnight magic

Lilac chiffon clinging to her bare bosom

Drunk was the moon

Drunk was the rain

Lone she walked into the midnight shadows of unkempt mangrove

Yonder

The sea is tamed into a calming whisper

Love

I.

Few pencils of a drunken moon

Vertical

Fenestrated through and through

A grunting noise

A raindrop seeps through the window pane

II.

A pair of folded magic

An oscular collision

A high in rhapsody

A gift

Midnight at Thirteen Grove

As if some hidden fingers breeze softly over the cosmic strings. As if this is the birthing of that primordial singularity wherefrom cometh this superluminal celerity, and henceforth space-time

and thou …
Snowflake falls

Candles flicker

Cold is brute

And kisses bold

Soft as muslin

Flowing robe

It's midnight

At thirteen grove

Side by Side

When the moon is high and the earth is fenestrated by its groping fingers; and when the shadow at a distance transcends and transform into nothingness:
Only to hark back
Only to walk by

Side by side

I Wonder

When wake up in the morning
And my mind bursts into the gentle rays of morning sun

I wonder

When my little daughter walks her first step

When she paints her first kiss on her mother’s cheek

I wonder

I know not how nature serenades its underlying chaos

I know not how my carbonaceous brain ventures into the non-ephemeral

I wonder

I ask what Newton asked of nature

I jump out of bathtub and dance naked

I wonder

I see the autumn leaves fall and decay and be one with earth
I see the birds fly a thousand mile only come back

I wonder

I have seen misery flowering into miracles of ecstasy

I have seen buds flowering into florets of inflorescence
I have seen Sappho convulse in agony

‘greener than grass’

I wonder

Rosen Shingle Creek
07/28/2017

Enforced Disappearance

Many years ago, I met a stranger. He told me a story that he overheard during his childhood.

There was a man who had a wife, a daughter and a son. The man was a fisherman. His wife was a storyteller. The children were lonesome fishes.

One day the man caught his own children in his fishing net.
Mother saved and gathered the kids and said,

Dear children,
‘Your father is a fisherman and you are fish.
He is like the king, who is father to his vassals and yet he cut their heads off

When he wishes.

Beware of your father…’

Children were young and innocent and said,

‘Dear mother,

We love our father.

He is a fisherman and we are the fish.

There is no evil design.’

Over the years, mother has told them many stories.

Some are happy, some are crazy, some are scary.

But today is different.

She hugged her children, closed her eyes and said,

‘Dear children,

You are innocent but your father is not.’

A day later, mother was nowhere to be seen.

Rosen Shingle Creek
07/28/2017

A Note to my Wife

You always end your question in an interrobang. I can feel your interjection. Your pain and laughter always lands with something more. Here at Shingle Creek, it rained horses and elephants. Rain has ended but the sun remained hidden. I can see an aeroplane disappear in the hanging clouds. Palm trees stand soaked and lonesome. I imagine your voice and your laugh. I have a rather blunt antenna. My brain is wired weird.

Rosen Shingle Creek
07/28/2017

My Birthday Poem

opatis amme (you burn us)
(sappho)

No, I am not the Roman emperor who lent his name to the eighth month of the Roman calendar. But I definitely can feel like one, for August happened to the most August month in the many years of my existence …

No, I am not the mighty novelist Herman Melville, but certainly, he does share my birthday, at least officially …

Yes, today is the first day of August. Today is my birthday.

Parul Di, in her own self-deprecating way, used to say, “Am I Rabindranath that I have to celebrate my birthday?” Beyond that, in this eternal haze of Einsteinian space-time, measurement of time is as insignificant as the fragility of human quest.

And yet, today is my birthday and want to celebrate, not because it is my birthday, rather because, today is the day when I first set my longing eyes on the Simorgh, where all that litter ends and wherefrom all that matter arises …

Yes, today is the day, on a rooftop in Pallabi, she lent her mana to burn my total being.

Barefoot she walked.

I arise.

I am a blue flower in the meadow grass.

August 01. 2018
Canton, New York

Tryst

At the end of the fairy tale the handsome prince handed over the lovely amaranth and bowed to the maiden of amaranthine loveliness. She nodded her head and smiled a fugacious smile.

The river of midnight ripples under a full moon. A yellow oleander blossoms at the yonder corner. Drunk and insane, a blind bee meanders hither and thither ... its wafting wings sing the song of midnight moon on a rippling river and of the lovely amaranth.

September 01, 2017

Anguish

Moonlit night..
I stand on my stale stilted foot.
I raise my right hand up in the sky for a thousand stars.

I lower my left hand and touch the ebonite earth.

Seven moons beacon from a distant horizon.
Seven shadows pirouette like seven Dervishes of Konya.

Each instant raptures into eons.

And eons into a capsule of time.

Bliss , love, friendship and muse

Harps on a string, a particle, a wave,

Or a singular orchard vine.

Wuthering wind rips the sail

Shipwreck

A dead sailor

An anguished wallow

11/18/2017, Norwood, NY

So I write Whatever I See from my Moving Train

(I)

For six days and seven nights he made love with the wanton harlot. On seventh day his body was weak and his knee broken. Unto him, the woman said,

‘ O’ Enkidu,

Your body is weak but your heart wise.
You ought not graze in meadows and munch on grass;

You have become a man.’

Enkidu, the brave and the wise sat on harlot’s feet and begged,

‘Take me there unto the temple of love where from you cometh.’

So I write whatever I see from my moving train:

A piece of bread

A goblet full of wine

A man at the feet of a woman.

(II)

Wisdom has no love, says the celibate priest.
Then he weeps and says unto the priestess:

“O’ my priestess,

Tear my robe open and listen to my loving heart.

My head is wise but my heart not.”

Thus spoken he placed his heart of a puny posy.

He offered the priestess his last homily.

So I write whatever I see from my moving train:

A demiurge

A dagger

A posy

(III)

Fetch a little love, she asked.

I asked with a sigh, from where?

From thin air, she said, get me a dragonfly,

A fly with a colors of love.

So, I catch a dragonfly.
I count the colors.
It has all the colors that the wings can carry.
I know not the color of love.

So unto her I ask, what’s the color of love?
I don’t know, she said, but bring it anyway.
When I see, I shall know.

So I write whatever I see from my moving train:

A pair of flies flew into the kingdom hall.
One colored all and the other nil.

(IV)

This land is mine and I shall erect a house on the mountain top; says the farmer of the Fairy Farm, for he grows angels and fairies to sell to the people of the plains, where angels wither and knows not how to fly.

Thus said, he built a house with spires high in the sky for he wish to watch, how the people in the plains treat his cherubim angels and his lovely fairies.

One morning the sun went into eclipse and earth crepuscular. Mountain wind wuthered by, as he spied an wanton man spoils an angel in mirth and merry.

One morning the wind was crisp and the moon still hanging. Mountain wind wuthered by, as he spied an wanton man clipped the wings of a lovely fairy in mirth and merry.

Sick to his heart, the farmer closed his eyes never to open again.

So I write whatever I see from my moving train:

Naughty God
A dog

A blind man

(V)

Men are mortal, women never.
Thus spake my friend Doppelganger.

Life is one, never forever

Thus spake my friend Doppelganger.

Brave is he, she braver

Thus spake my friend Doppelganger

So I write whatever I see from my moving train:

Temple promenade

Flustered votary

A dazed hierophant

(VI)

My dearest wife

I have not seen you for days and weeks

I have read books and written notes

I have been to the tree and hugged its branches

When the night ends in morning

When the morning morph into day

And day again into night,

I long for that instant of:
Susurant rain

Mystic meadow.

Pain.

(VII)

Were I a good man, I would have write it nice.

I am not a good man.

Were I a knave, I would have write it twice nice.

I am not a knave.

Were I a saint, I would have write it genuine and nice.

I am not a saint.

Were I a poet, I would have written in posy and nice.

I am not a poet.
Were I a lover, I would have written it as lovely as you are.

I am not a lover.

So I write whatever I see from my moving train:

Lush meadows.

Autumn leaves.

A tired horse.

(VIII)

So it’s written,

Thou shalt kill Humbaba where the cedar fell.
Thou shalt travel far and wide

And to the land of immortal life.

Two third God and one third Man

O’ Gilgamesh, thou art mortal.

Earth is round and journey endless.

Perished Enkidu and so will you.

Enkidu die.

Cedar fell.
A far off wail.

Penned on the night of March 21st, 2014
Edited on November 20, 2017

Folly of Kun Fayakun (Be and IT is)

“there are more things in Heaven and Earth,

Horatio, than are dreamt in your philosophy.”

(Shakespeare, Hamlet)

'and philosophy is dead'

Thus spake Stephen Hawking

For math has taken over

And heaven exists no more

The arena is ever changing

And the fabric boisterous

This is the ethos

Creation and destruction dance like a Siamese Twin

Tangled ...

'to be or not to be'

Wary

I sit on a tree on water's edge

A lonely kingfisher dives in

For long-lost halcyon days

Wary

I ran into the brier

Let me bake my own heaven and earth

Let me be my own lord

'kun fayakun'

I said

Ah

Why the earth is pretty

And the sea salty

Nov 23, 2017

Birthday Note

We knew not, but you taught

What it means to stay awake all the night.

We knew not, but you taught,

What it means to read Berenstain Bears over and over and every night.
We knew not, but you taught,

What is feels to be in pain when you cried in sickness with ugly Strep.

We knew not, but you taught,

What is means to be in league with life’s tender moments …

You are the Song of Love,

You are the Love of song.

My dearest daughter,

It was cold and snowy.

Earth’s unsightly blights were hidden by the sanctity of yuletide snow.
You chose to alight.

Happy Birth Day

December 10, 2017
Norwood, NY

April Notes 2018

1)

No poem is better than a poet. A poet is a poem. When a poet writes a poem, he becomes his own doppelganger. A book of poems becomes a starry sky of thirty poets; the moon, the sun, and the birdsong. A book of poems is the purgatory, wherefrom rises the poet-extraordinaire. A fiery star, an explosion to smithereens, a golden nugget.

2)

A week into spring. River again dance in high wind. Stubborn snow melts away inch by inch Dandelions and lilacs await on wings.

Ah! When the grass shall come back with bugs and butterflies in its bellies?

Ah! When the gazelle shall roam and set the spring free into the explosive bloom?

Ah! When the earth shall be rife giving off its geosmin nascence of freshness?

A week into spring. I sit on the tattered grass. I pray.

3)

Eventide in the winding woods. A bang and a screeching halt. A road kill. A lonely limping deer; Is it a man or a woman deer? Winter was harsh and food was scarce. Tonight he or she will be alone. The human driver drove past the eventide into the night.

4)

He kissed that immortal kiss. Yet the chariots of night never stops. A perpetual day is but an infernal nightmare; serpents reign … O’ dear friend of twenty-four years, forewarn was there for me to heed. How shall I blame for my misery, but you – what is your story?

Have you too dined and danced with the kings and queens? Have you too kissed an immortal kiss? Have you too cried for the chariots of the night to go slow?

"O lente, lente, currite noctis equi!

The stars move still time runs, the clock will strike,"

Let the clock strike its last upshot.

It’s time for the vacuity of fullness to end.

5)

A hymn from an ocean floor of a far away planet. A chant of thousand verses of thousand minds.

She wanders from heaven to heaven. The Goddess of all Goodness. A lotus. A yoga mat & cup of morning tea.

6)

Air is crisp and blithe with light snow. I reach the wooden bridge, Yonder is the tall sandstone gate of Bayside Cemetery. The trail takes a turn. A roundabout … Sleeping souls. My tired calf slogs back. Lighted apartments. Life's vagary. A gas station. Coffee shop. Church spires. A two-mile run on Clarkson Trail. With every step, I feel the earth still wet and soggy from melted snow. Trees stand tall with songs of spring. It's spring; it's not …

7)

This week I got two books; one still hot from the press, a novel by my friend. My friend is critical care doctor. He dances with life and death. The other book is “Godsong” – a celebration of friendship between God and Man. This author is a doctor too. He dances with life and death too. He strives to kill the emperor of all maladies – cancer.

My wife is a singer, she is training her voice, and planning the teaching details for the next semester. A sitar, a tabla-duo and a harmonium and printed article on quantum suicide.

This is the morning. Eggs, avocado and few slices of bread. Marlowe's Dr. Faustus was on the floor. I picked it up and read to my wife: “run, softly, softly, horses of the night ...”

This was the morning.

My wife is doing her nails; terracotta color on toes. She called. I left my laptop in the study. Toes are blazing like sumptuous butea. I kissed. Rabindranath on youtube.

It's April and still cold and snowy.

I lament not …

I shall not ask the sun to come.

I shall not ask the dandelions to bloom.

Water in the river is stiller than still.

Cedars in my yard is tall and proud.

I lament not ...

8)

Beyond the sun and moon. Into the heaven. Wings withered. Under the Lote Tree. Eyes looked yonder: 'Let God be the man and man be the God.' HE said The words trembled past the shade of the tree and and succumbed into eternal entropy

9)

Moments sing past moments. It's almost dark but not. Twilight colors have hearkened the hues of ornate Luray. He sits next to the window overlooking the river. He sings of hiemal songs. He sings of the river and of the ocean. An eternal mollusk

10)

A song is not a song until it is sung.

Until it seeps into the deepest stratum of someone else’s song.

Thus you sing the song of Earth and Moon.

Thus you sing the song of rain and crimson hibiscus.

Thus you sing the song of a gilded nugget,

That is lost in the depth of a mighty river.

I am the nugget.

I was born in an exploding sun.
I carry the story of eternal time.

I tumble down the river.

I tumble past the bare cliffs and dark canyons.

I tumble down to the verdant meadow.

I touch the heart of a tiny blue flower.

I see a lonely gazelle,

Staring …

I carry the story of eternal time. I tell my story to the tiny blue flower in the meadow. A song is not a song until it is sung. I sing my song to the gazelle and to the blue flower. Who you are?

Gazelle or flower ?!

11)

Imagine, one sweet morning you and I woke up dead. Amines, and cholines , and all those prancing fairies of our carbonaceous being stop their trickery.  Hooked to machine. No pain. No elation. No nothing. Is not it something to be nothing? “All that remains is a fate whose outcome alone is fatal”* And imagine, one sweet morning woke up not … * from Ephemeral Creation. Albert Camus)

12)

Do dreams have meaning? Do elephants fly? Jasmines and hibiscuses are in full bloom. Bougainvilleas scream their intense colors. Birds fly. Evening is lazy. Two souls forded an eternal stream. The second morning, they were kissed. Heart fluttered, but is was the brain that was awash. A gold rush of dancing chemicals inundated their total being. Consciousness gave way to a blissful unconsciousness. Their lips were ensanguined autumn leaves - ripe to fall for the earth. Is the universe anthropocentric?

13)

He is the destroyer of earth and heaven. He stands akimbo on the mountain peak. He looks down and sees the rivulets gather their streams together into mighty rivers. He is the dancer. He dances his cosmic jitterbug while the thunder plays its boogie-woogie blue … A sustained din. A chuckle. A dishonest bard marred by confused melancholy. An entropy … Alive in a deadly dream … He felt an antalgic touch coming down with photic celerity only to be frozen in no time; time is torn, space collapsed, and gravity devastating. Dream weaves its gossamer threads and floats deeper into other dreams, and beyond other horizons.

Doors ajar. A reed and a blade of green grass from a far-away planet waft by … He floats deeper and deeper into other dreams, and beyond. Trees blaze in flame. Shiva loves the wild and the poisonous; the Dhuturas, and the Akondos.

A Doctor’s Day

It's morning, still to converse with my first guest.

Just read your email.

Thank you for your note.

My first guest is a child.

He came with his mother.

I asked,

: How are you today?

He smiled,

: I am good.

He smiled again,

: My parents are getting a divorce.

Mother had pain in her face.

Quickly we changed subject.

Cough, wheeze and sneeze ...

Your kindest note is humbling ...

It's a quest through thorns and thickets;

Garden of heaven at yonder.

I am ready to entertain my next guest.