A poet-philosopher putting head in heavens and heavens in the head
I know you do sing a song precious to thine
where in love, rule the element divine
I win by chance thy love by corporate art
never to squander tears for a seaming part
I supposedly live in grime quarters
with a sorrow open to unwelcoming laughters
and in grip of Chelsea soccer fever
I rest but not to walk the world as a beaver
Shinning up on the Pagoda, gleaming a snowy retreat,
and hardly a soul to wear the yellow faint light entreat,
The sun a fiery ball reminds me of a forlorn star,
there in depths of space it pulls on power,
the walk through the galaxy it does with mighty elan,
there I loose letting myself swoon to it in a paean,
and hopefully we run with mirth in its shiny light,
there are hopefully aliens waiting beyond the sunny sight,
In the sunshine we bask till the day breaks into night,
and too early at dawn the sun gathers itself warm,
till the dusk when the rosy day is put to end with charm,
I fold my hands and will for the prayer
In the universe's bosom everything to rest fair.
And the sun's a pagoda in the sky
loosing nothing but its age in the measureless fly.
Love denied worsens the plight of men besot
In earthen kingdom of heavens where are sought
angelic women in merry clothes clad,
with a gaze through the cloudy nimbus light,
I saw in Himalayan icy caps, the frozen God heaving might,
propelling the imagination of a cuckoo child,
who having spun all the thinking yarn, did his fingers clasp
and in a second the mad men did frightening retort
Attila the Hun is among them, drunk to maddening degrees
and waiting to explode,
running twinging fingers against the child's head,
and bore the scourge,
while the angelic women perform ethereal dance
and the child reposes in his mother's arms
into a cool dream of ethereal light silvery and dimmed.
The Hun is dead, long ago when the sun was young,
as now, the child safely lulls to a careless sleep.
Ribbons folded her hair into knots,
with silky blonde strands looming,
over her face as if a curtain half-drawn,
behind which her forehead caught,
thousand stars into a net held taut,
there was a golden ratio of universe,
having come and fallen into her vault,
And then she thought, what will I be?
A half-open boonet of a car!
I must resign to his silliest jokes,
with a plenitude of laughs!
What will have me though?
Grapes stringed to my hair as if from boughs?
But a flower plucked from the autmn's lot.
A look upon the mountain was a drift,
on the shoestring budget I brought a Piano,
the look meant I had pined hopes on being a thrift,
and with the old school grammar lessons' help, I played the hosanna.
the prayer would run as if it were a God's might,
a moon bright charm to hyena's delight,
I danced my fingers on the keyboard and called the pun,
There was a morphing light gilded from the sun.
I hesitated and ruminated the passing of years on time's sledge,
there was a lonesome figure luriking at the bushes' edge,
and I sang with exultion to see Catherine emerge,
from the bushes and into my look she surged.
I wish to resurrect myself in the fashion of yesteryears,
Only to surrender to the copious love of sunflowers,
There stood at the wicker, a face beneath the shadow,
and was it a phantom, my lover or a needy widow?
Herself shy of a fortune right in this country town,
willowing on a break with someone's heart for meantime,
there was the onlooker preying upon my gaze full blown,
while I return with the paradise's nectar in pantomime.
Still she looked like a pal from the past birth, now a reborn,
A face in the meadow gnaws on the silence of the wild,
Only to be returned somehow weary as if a tired child,
There she stood at the wicker, a face of a thrush in the morn.
but bit by bit the sermon is transmitted into empty air,
Christ waiting by the door when to arise but computer is silly,
hardly knows the Christian in whose name the world prays,
silly the intellectual ache backed up by memory ware,
tome by tome caught in the every tipsy flags of computer paired,
gibberish is the binary, the language of the wayward display,
still waiting for you to download another Furtado song on its, ephemeral sway,
silly the computer waits like a habitual slave ,
to rebel against the master and have its way,
clearing all the sines and tans loaded on to its disk array.
I am done doing spreadsheets, calculating the dots in a matrix,
the personal computer is much a lost race!
