Day: August 12, 2017

Jerusalem Artichoke (Helianthus)

Tanned yellow tiles, The open face of a sun flower, Pollen-clutched bees and butterflies, Composite, compound soul, That keeps vigil on the forefront In an anthesis of a celestial sun, That can swallow yellowcake, Through her sieves and tongues, And stands untouched through time, Like an Elizabethan virgin, Who smiles for the simple reason She

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The Walk Through No Man’s Land

The faces eager for survival. The long walk through the cracked earth, And little tunnels of Ataturk’s land. The dawns of regathering your mettle, The eves of laying down your arms, The days that bridge dawn and dusk, Courage and desperation. And you just have to look at a little child To see, how amber

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Growing Up

You’re born, with a barometer On every tip, sahara to the taiga And yet, you hope to god You never have to grow up And learn the art of survival. With survival comes Thickening armadillo skin A steady heart that is a contra-ataxic constant A soul that ransacks and evicts Every possible life, or her

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Blonde

Dim wit, or nitwit Is a borderline insult and doormat, Is just plain bulldozing and still, look at anything Blonde, you get a feeling of Being a perennial understatement. “How many blondes to write a poem?” One to put the thinking Viking hat on, One to look at the northern lights, And the midnight sun,

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In the Garden Near the Lemon Tree

Looking out I cannot gather enough evidence Why everything in nature Seems to be a perfect setting. Like the rose petals that crowd And yet are concentric, the myena bird So brown-black in plumage, And yet crazily streaked in yellow. The tree filled with lemons Like yellow-green breasts hanging down For tiny babies to suckle,

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Homeless

We are an invisible race To the governments, the passers-by Sometimes even to the charities. We are not beggars but still we pass our time on steps The kind that has two or three, And gives us a concrete plank To keep ourselves horizontal and asleep. We see invitations everywhere On the arch where the

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