A look a drift

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.

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A face in the meadow

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.

The Priest

Follow the main part in the play of the gang,
of brethren who tested the pace of wind,
with their arrows stringed to a bang,
those choppy seas rose, hearing the birds sing,
Then men were released on to the shore,
Thousands of them along the beach, to an orgy in the shallows,
there they avenged the death of priest on the gallows.

He wore camaraderie like a woman would a lipstick,
he would charm the sheep with his vocal cords,
and the priest would be left altogether aghast,
He was proclaimed the sinner on the hanging bridge,
which shuddered with the feet of too many men,
like a thread would in the face of the wind,
The priest had believed the God to be a witch.

The God Face

I had a beer opened with a clunk as a cold fume arose of it,
Behind the fume was a God Face decrying the pope,
As I soothe my lips with the brewy fluid the throat is hit,
by the God particle fizzing through my body and elope,
somewhere into billion cells that make me human,
The God Face I saw behind the persona of the bartender who did pour,
while I purred with the blood flushing into my face and a little high,
I feel the presence of God in my head where the beer had soared,
and the ace of spades I put on the parapet,
as the bartender preserved the drink in the refrigerator,
I seek to pour more into the glass and taste the peanut,
the God Face mellowed as the Pink Floyd I heard in the sunset.
While Enrique Iglesias stopped the time,
and God Face began in my head to mime.

A saintly love-joy

What is the source of happiness?
The laughter split into shards of joy,
While you smile reddened by umpteen times
of love's remembrance,
the wealth or health are merely a toy,
to make-believe the spirit of God above,
Still I share with you the treasure trove,
of saints long lived and passed now,
that their meandering about the earth,
are above the plenitude of many a row,
While we burn with joy the common hearth,
This is the source of happiness-
the silent halo of betokened love above the clouds,
The abode of nothing but pure nature's shrouds.