Filed under: destiny, growth, happiness, religion | Tags: couple, English, Ganesh, Indian, love, magenta, peridot, wedding
English at an Indian
Wedding, sitting in
The crowd among
The drums and
Auspices like weeds
Among the cultivated
Saries with their
Yellow and magenta
Blue topaz and
Peridot sheen.
Looking on Indians,
At home in their religion.
At One with
Whatever it is that
Made them.
The English hope It made them too,
When they come to looking
In the dusty files labelled
Wedding, funeral, birth.
God and gods and people and family weave
Together and in this
Web, the couple
Catch the tricks
They need,
Sharing the cords,
Keeping them taught
With Love,
The remover of all obtacles,
Ganesh.
Filed under: growth, healing, love, nature, pain, regression, shame, strength | Tags: ache, apple, autumn, bell, doubt, girl, loss, love, muisty, poetry, romance, worm
1.
My name is girl
My age is when
I feel the day
My height is fringed
With misty things, the haze
That surrounds all,
Air , or something like it,
Electrical.
Part 2.
My fate is but a worm
Squirming in the sand
Beneath an apple on the
Beach.
My rubbery coil senses Autumn’s
Mellow fruit but feels
Only grit and cigarette ends,
Yellowed with spit
And the odd spat of sea.
Part 3.
My Date is a round
Can of something fizzy,
A man, who’ll pop
And bubble over
With sense and tunes
Told well, with confidence
Like some voluntary tramp.
Part 4.
My ache is a bell
Bent out of shape
Chord twanged by the wrong
Hand. Who’’s hand?
Who cares? Lets fix it,
If it’s copper it’ll meld well.
Part 5.
My tune is a song
Soldered on to the side
of my liver, an odd
Audience, granted,
But keen, it knows exactly
Where I’ve been and what
Deals Life’s dealt.
No, livers make grand audiences,
They’ll tell you whether or not
You were truly magnificent,
With their view from the stalls.
Filed under: Cuba, Travel, Uncategorized | Tags: havana, lost, love, moon, night, sea
Why am I choked as I
Look up at you
Smiling down on your
Malecon, Drawing the waves close to lovers
making the sea spray
Them with foam
While I sit high up
And far away, over
Havana but not of
Or in her, suspended
Beyond blotchy balcony
And spotless faded sheets
Hanging over windows
Crisscrossed with tape
From the last hurricane.
Need a Cuba Libre, extra
Rum and maybe even Santiago,
To fill this gaping aching hole
Between my ribs that
No sunsetted dome or
Timba drum can fill.
No, give me a bottle of Rum-
Do I miss him or that
Time when I felt
Good about my looks with his on me?
