The Flute

Into my flute now, if I could breathe,

I would breathe slow, in gratitude,

As ageless voices echo deep,

They rebound back, in a dance of music.

Into my flute now, if I could breathe,

I would whisper a song of gratitude,

Not of love and gain, or loss and pain,

But of unbound simplicity, unexpressed.

I’d tell my instrument of a listless night,

Of long years and shadows, now gone by,

A transient discord of horror, and then again,

A bursting melody, not in vain.

I’d tell him of this special soul,

The one who creates music in expertise,

Drumming this vibrancy, unparalleled,

I’d tell him of the minstrel of a far off grove.

I’d breath to my flute, a harmony, a soul,

A voice unheard---unheard before,

And I’d like to tell him, that although,

I cannot tame the winds into a waiting fist,

I can call the music my own!

The flute is eternally mine,

But sometimes, a lungful of winds do visit.

As I breathe in and out,

They echo back, unceasingly, never to leave, never in relapse.

The surging waves never damping---the laws of nature, to impudently defy.

It unwinds, tangles, like a tiresome stray,

But the stubborn music, familiar to flute, my child, has come to stay, has come to stay.

The songbird spoke at 2:49 P.M., for the favorite musician of the far off grove.

More fortunate than I?

The fair has come to town today,

And the mud roads I trample,

In earnesty, to kick up the dust with trinket-bound feet,

And a traveler’s stories to hear.

The tramps are all huddled and still,

The travelers bicker and joke,

The accomplished smile through fish teeth,

And showcase treasures galore.

We endured the far off lands,

And these are our trophies, they say,

Trudging through the desert sands,

Foreign mountains and orange sun in may.

To win and fight for all that’s sought,

We plundered fearlessly, and sacrificed,

And this is the fruit of sweat and blood,

The sweet riches that in pockets jingle.

It means we’re brave, and there’s no cause for treason,

It robbed us of our youth and age,

And yet, we are the kings of our lands and reason,

Reasoned the old man today.

He felt himself a fortunate creature,

And I was glad that he couldn’t see,

The veil that hid the coal-black eyes,

Brimming with genuine pity.

I left the tramps to gape at glimmering treasures,

Founded and unfounded,

For they might win a thousand more,

And never as I, be fortunate.

In my heart, I know love,

And to be loved back, ardently,

With all I hold dear to me.

That, more than he!

For he was but foolhardy,

To travel the many lands and fight,

Historic wars and fatigue,

To collect for himself a few coins

Pitiable!

And for I might be just a somebody,

Who’s little and doesn’t matter much,

But in my heart I am satisfied,

That I am fortunate, more than that shallow soul gone awry.

And hence, I walked away, more prosperous than everybody.

For the richest fortunes are intangible, you see.

Everywhere to be

In her garden, beneath the flailing skies,

Fertile soil in frightful quiet lay,

Waiting upon the right winds to blow,

In her faithful humus, happy seeds to sow.

And seeded they were, not one but numerous,

Spreading their roots and suckling on her wealth,

Grabbing nutrition, with their greedy tendrils,

Growing burdens, and weeds, aplenty.

And then one day, the benevolent winds planted,

Gently, a good elm in her midst,

So as her fluid arms flowed in and around,

She embraced him, completely.

For she was water, a tricky aquamarine,

Quenching, needed and yet cruel at sea,

But that special tree you see,

Was nourished, for it wasn’t just another weed.

Oh how he grew, splendid and tall,

And oh, how he spoke of grandeur in fall,

Oh, that poetry in silent calls,

They were much more than she’ll ever recall.

And when to the winds he bowed and thrilled,

Through her, ripples he sent, multiple,

Developing, constant and unfazed,

Nurtured, caressed and gone away?

Oh what language they shared—a coexistence,

What laughter trickled through his veins,

What disregard in innocent games

A disposition, frankly pleasant.

She gurgled, she smiled, she basked,

In her lovely brook by her tree,

Beneath his scattered shelter she played,

Meandering coyly but then again….

There is sun, who paints the heavens,

And science wrote, in the back of its heart,

That she should embark,

On fateful journeys, painfully endless.

And so, a cruel transpiration tugged,

Her droplets from the tallest branches,

She left with “this is survival love,”

You should transpire, and I shall fly.

Was it goodbye? He seemed to ask,

You nourish me, and I wish to last,

Stay here, will you, please?

From the sun and vicious cycles, can water beg release?

And she left to reach the burning sun,

Who pulled with allure, natural

It might have seemed so feral,

wrong, weird.

But understand this, love, with heed she always returns,

Through the many miles, and countless turns

As dew every morning, to see the loving elm….

as dew every morning to see the loving elm!!!

Before evanescing to rightful brilliance.

And she wishes only but this,

To belong with the skies, and the trees.

To journey along, mindfully,

To heal all hearts, and everywhere to be.

She'll live as memory if in your heart you keep….

A weathering rock she is

They beat the dirt
Out of soiled cloths,
On enduring cement,
Slapped hard on rugged stone.

They beat the dirt,
Off scrappy jeans,
That was bought home
By playful Jimmy.

They beat dirt,
Like pulsing to secret rhythm,
Like an crude Sonata,
A symphony, maybe.

The cloths are less soiled,
The kids, less spoilt,
But who ever considered
The battered, enduring stone?

She’ll one day chip,
Surely crack or slip,
As you beat off the dirt on her,
Will weathering rock take it?


She’s tired.
Carve her, quick.
If you have to excavate her excruciatingly,
You could sculpt a masterpiece.
For else she will weather,
A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is.

For one day when you are done washing,
And wipe the sweat off your brow,
You'll see a jagged edge or two,
Unconquered by the brutes.

And you'll howl upon the stone that was,
Suspicious of murderous intent,
And throw the stone amongst the dirt,
Or wail to immediately discard,
to keep your kids safe.

Or wash it all away.

A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is.
A weathering rock she is....

The Ginkgo

A pretense of azure,
Happy summer skies,
The somber clouds do part an inch,
To allow for mischief.


They’re tremulous today,
Bent and acquiescing,
Succumbing in dignified solemnity,
But do I catch that one quivering for release?


Or this one, in crowded space,
Chocking in the emerald, thronged,
Why, the guilt, I now wonder,
Can I find me in there, somewhere?


Oh look, a ginkgo leaf hesitating like one charmed,
No webs, no venation,
Just plain and simple.
A marvel.


At last I found the leaf that was me,
Upon the sidewalk, stalling,
Like one in young love, chasing pretentious sunshine,
Into scattered shadows, and then back again.

Oh Hedwig!

When into amber eyes I looked,
Gone was I, led astray,
The world rocked and shook,
Pronouncing joyous accolades.

Lost by not pitifully so,
For I still knew my way,
Held loose, but very close,
And then, wandering there.

Oh Hedwig, oh Hedwig, I called
To that snowy owl of mine,
Myths, on wings, so alive,
To love and life, I used to cry.

For the sun shone when it was no more day,
For the letters, come what may,
Oh Hedwig, I called, take them to the happy place,
The thousand letters preciously encased.

For there is no more gloom, when here she be,
No more room for tragedy,
No more hurt, no more pain,
For this she could be, just simply an everything.

The three good mares

The front yard housed the three good mares,
Neighing, prancing and frolicking there,
Bestowed with warmth, love and care,
They lived free, the three good mares.

The three good mares, she looked upon,
And as months rolled, and pansies sprung,
To keep them strong, healthy and young,
She served them, and spotted returning affection in all.

The first one from the south did come,
A battered but playful soul,
She knew of the horse from once before,
A forgotten song, forgiveness and more.

The other one, had grown with her to this day,
Helping her through, always being there,
She hugged the lovely animal, the color of clay,
Relishing the warmth in her one true friend.

The last was new to the shed,
But sincere, still, all the same,
So much rapturous strength,
And a lingering earnestness.

But then she feared, that they would ask,
To choose one over the other,
But then she silently prayed in her head,
That no matter what, there’d be no change.

For the front yard was a happy place,
Where all she respected and all she loved,
Stayed intact, and then preserved,
But that day, she finally chanced upon.

One hinted, one asked and the other didn’t say,
All trying to go the very same way,
But alas, it was so unfortunate,
That they had to carve their paths as separate.

What would she speak, what could she tell?
Whom did she value, above all else?
All were spirits, so delicate, all lovable,
All justifiably true to her, all more than friends.

How could she lie, how could she say,
That for each one of them, she didn’t care,
How could she be selfish, how could she play?
With their emotions, and turn some away?

And so, she didn’t know where to go,
Which path to tread, or how this would end,
Because the truth was this, there was one she loved,
Above all others, and repeatedly told, so much.

That didn’t mean this, I’ll say,
That for others she held no affection, she could swear,
By the heavens, and tell you today,
They mattered the world to her, the other mares.

But they turned upon each other and she witnessed,
Bloody battles, and with much distress,
They blamed her then, once again,
For when they turned selfish in love, they didn’t understand her hurt.

One blamed her of ignorance,
And the other of tyranny,
A little bit of distrust, unrealistic,
But she was no devil, not many secrets did she keep.

To all heads held high, imperial,
She bowed meek, with anguish, pure,
Weedy grew the front-yard,
She walked away.

The mares she cherished stood tall,
Bold, wonderful, magnificent,
If there was any truth to love, she thought,
That one would then turn back.

She wished to see who would follow,
As she trotted a reedy road,
But her wishes, she slowly swallowed,
Hobbling, burdened with her own load.

By twilight, she found her weeping willow,
A favorite from childhood, waiting for her there,
And in his branches, she was mortal no more,
Not knowing if a single mare had realized and followed….