Perhaps in this seasonal bout, Of hay fever, you will find in your nasal voice A cheer to spur yourself, to go out to the garden, To see the floral display, All of nature’s butterfly attractants Learning that pollen is just, The softest art of letting go voluntarily, Using the master trickery of glue. A
Foliage in abscission Ants scampering sensing changes In the ambient environment. The days getting shorter, the nights Made for love making, like a broth of soup Heating on a flame. The kites turn in for the season. No more bright fireworks of the orbing sun, The days get lazier and in the night, You shuffle
Time-skewed, diseased of sloth I stand in that vacuum, sucked Into it, like a Hoover vacuum cleaner, Learning that time, just passes you by And you’re like the tree whose Braches rattle, leaves rustle, resisting abscission. While my hair, like bamboo culms Waving in the wind, not knowing That every subtle movement Is a choreographed
There is something Called the millennium bug. The Y2K bug that was supposed To kill off many computer systems. Still they didn’t. I remember That day, when all around the Sydney Harbor bridge, there were revelers Partying the whole night, Fireworks pushing sparks Onto the sky, that the stars became So inconspicuous, fading to sight.
Fable to sable Right to wrong In that unheralded moment You soak in glory A little butterfly Turns to an ugly moth And a flame stands In an oxymoron Called fame. Ebb Becomes a sentence And destiny is Erosion paying forward A levy of self Stitching a mask That with time Turns to skin.
The dark veins and burgundy tapestries Remind you that fireplaces are burning early at dusk And a little corridor of time between sunrise and sunset Is nature’s catwalk, where many line-up Thinned by abscission, wearing brief frocks, The anorexic and the plus size in pret-a-porter. What matters here is not the girth or the number
You call one gender, anti-woman Plug filler, fiery demon, perennial beast You call man, abominable You love to abhor, after all that is one degree Beyond hate, and you call yourself The messiah of your kind Who was never nailed on a wooden table Or a spring mattress on a cheap hotel room You spit
Sometimes We only see the avalanche The revolution, the bandannas and pickets Holi colors and graffiti art Blood canvases, open banners And hearts covered in berets When every gun becomes As invisible as the soldier holding it When we don’t feel or sense Bullets piercing the intercostals And ribs broken by force And the next
Scattering Dreams and Tales Published by 13 poets (3 – 4 Poems Each) https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/547417 Introduction (Done by a fellow poet) This latest collection of poems, our third, can be considered a grace note attached to the full melody to the first two. The title, “Scattering Dreams and Tales,” was written to reflect the other two