Poems about a single moment
Firangipanis fall by the wayside
In pathways with rain’s puddles
Blocks for our old lives are listed
Peacefully in abecedarian order.
Bald grasses have lost green dye
It is time to transplant new hair
So they can wave younger heads
To a spirited new southern wind.
Any ways blocks for the old lives
Stay listed peacefully from E to P.
Body holds death by filibustering words
Death be not proud ,or over such waffle
That claims a victory over earth and fire.
Sky is overpopulated on the dark nights.
All bodies die and their words die quickly
Looking kind of showy star dust flickers
Or lighted jacks of the bone’s phosphorus
One takes for the lonesome night’s ghosts .
After the body dies ,words die soon after.
Words are bodies that restate our deaths.
The gifts is what you have always thought of
In a cellophane and silk with red cross-knots
Of love in many a splendor or in see-through
Corruption stench, abuse of company money.
Not what your son was when first born then.
A gift from mother nature turns a dad proud
A calculation backward or rhythm of fingers
Or empathy neurons ticking for other people.
Gifts do not come free like company lunches.
You give what you received in the last season.
His life was a gift from nature like her flowers
In colors unsolicited, fragrances of memories.
There are no free lunches in business &nature
And now it was a time to repay by return gift.
Right now ,at 2AM , I hear small sounds
Of AC’s whisper and a human body here
Making sleep sound in room’s darkness
Beside me under a rapid eye movement.
Cage’s 4’33” included a piano not played
For precisely that much duration of time.
Was that like a white painting of nothing
In hall surrounding with human sounds?
Is there thing like listening to the silence
Like for instance bird’s cry in nearby tree
Even growl from my own stomach below
Striking my ear in sudden attentiveness?
(John Cage’s 4’33” musical performance says silence is music if only one attentively listens )
As the old poet we have well to look in
With a bucket lowered gently to touch
Perturbed waters in the broken moons.
Night dreams of fearsome green snake
Lurking in dark hibiscus tree standing.
A boy in knickers cannot bend too low
For fear in belly, not of Narcissus -love.
Fear perks up like piece of balcony sky
And crawls in half-pants to feet below.
The bucket falls to it in deep dull thud
As the rope had slithers down a pulley
Like a water snake searching for frogs.
The waters come up to sprinkle moons
In tiny puddles on the stone saucer rim.
What I am thinking ,I check with a poet
An odd elegist about mad cartographer
Who falls to a sweet earth he has been
Successfully mapping the intestines of.
Do I know what I am thinking as a poet
When surrounded by a new heat wave?
I turn my plurality of self upside down
When heat gets you down to intestines.
Am I belly- seeker thinking asleep away
Do not I map the intestines needlessly?
I am thinking ,like this elegist poet here
A poem can go on for ever in intestines.
Roof corrugations collect leaves
After losing a previous day’s sun.
The cat is missing but since gone .
Rain snakes flow in corrugations
To blow down leaves to an earth
But cat is messing since not gone
With a kitten held by loose scruff.
Mom cat searches in other night
On hot other roof, on scalded feet.
Kitten turns small night’s scraping.
The scraping of the night is sound
In an inner lobe of an ear’s poems.
Cats are poems on the hot tin roof
They drop and flow as rain waters
Snake through night corrugations.
Kittens are small poems on the side.
Isn’t it time I thought about wasp?
For a long time ,I have not seen it
Because there is no thatch above
Old little heads now empty of hair.
In the wall, there are no holes now
Like there used to be , so long ago.
Only vacant holes are the windows
Time windows of memory of wasp.
Morning was the blue poem
about blue hills
And men in dreams beyond
blue veined existences.
In distance there appeared
a blue hill in smoke rising.
Blue conch flowers bloomed
by the dreaming hills.
Blue was the dream within
a larger dream.
Love’s horse carriage is boat
That takes us through stories
Like a sea that vomits turtles
And a fish hungry with death
Death awaits end of journeys
All through a cobbled street
On a night of intense passion.
Stories are just some journey.
(Dostoevsky’s stories)
Momentary poems 