Reflections on Connections

Reflections

on Connections

 

Slowly moving in the rapids of traffic

with thousands of iron horses flowing along

from all directions to the city by the mighty lake

the journey point being to honor a disaster’s wake

 

A winding procession of aggressions

jockeying and advancing back and forth

to gain another’s passing minute

crazed minds and wills are dead set

 

In the distant - walls of tall buildings

standings of concrete, steel, iron, glass

edifices raping the lakefront ground

scraping divinity back down from heaven’s bound

 

Time is time of contemplating

while a poet speaks of the roadless lands of Columbia

and how teaching the art of laundry

leaves murderers in rivers of quandary

 

Destiny and journey arrive to entrances of feign

where dungeon garages are fill with poisoning fumes

yet a butterfly clings on to my dear wife

and thus, we set it free outside to breathe a good life

 

The noises are abuzz in mazes of traffic flights

their penetrating sounds are abhorrently loud

horns insisting, engines idling gasses, sirens blaring

purpose and intention have no harmony or bearing

 

Unimaginable smells permeate the air

and aromas of passersby identify odors and perfumes

lovely and handsome walkers strolling by

while zombie like commuters are on a perpetual fly

 

Native and foreign voices and accents intertwine

with words of conversations and imaginations

some are business minded most are romantics

thinking of jovial spendings in a summer night’s antics

 

While still there are the downtrodden looking lost

and vagabonds sitting at curbs asking for a dollar

hundreds of stories all converging to a place near the park

where children play underneath the water fall in lark

 

Summer concert playing underneath the open sky

where public grounds bring together sculpture and nature

the lawns filled with blankets of lovers enjoying endearments

while listening to classic composer arrangements

 

Dusk’s gentle dimming relents its mood to the heightened night life

of garrulous party animals that wine and dine under the city lights

at a tree tavern loft where the lakefront’s gentle breezes

kiss the bare skin gently to sooth and tease

 

Venturing out well beyond the safe and comfort of the shore

to seek adventure and to find the lore

what words can be lost if no one remembers their connections

such as life and death tied to survivors and their reflections

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Poet Speaks In Colors

 

 

 

 

 

 

That when sense of matters float languidly in queue

 

Weary thoughts are sinking and rising at the water’s face

 

Then come circle about in a saving craft of blue

 

 

 

At the end of a climb where the summit place

 

And all of earth’s splendor lies below in emerald hues

 

Name the passing white brigantines crossing above in blue space

 

 

 

When the winter white snows cover the skin’s frozen bruise

 

And the long season stillness awaits the first breath of spring

 

To awaken the irrepressible yellow and blue crocus muse

 

 

 

Then celebrate the rebirth of life and sing

 

Wearing your deepest colors of green, blue and red

 

To dance with whirling wings as the wind chimes ring

 

 

 

Let be the final words said

 

‘Twas his last wish to dress in colors of blue

 

And speak of the poet not in tones of sad

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Words in Polygamy

 

 

 

 

 

 

They sit in books of Merriam Webster

Arranging to follow strict alphabet

The words give meaning but have no texture

 

Keeping positions apart - anisette

To zygote -  until words bring together

A story of liqueur and a brunette

 

Word’s kindred fashion in passion’s nether

Or uplifting goodness done in well take

But remain silent saying not whether

 

The damsel’s incarnadine was in sake

So to pitch woo the frog’s slithery kiss

Or was it to beckon her lover’s slake

 

 

An author brings life to a word’s cold state

And to polygamy of endless mate

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yellow and Sunflowers

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yellow and Sunflowers

 

 

 

It was you that found sitting alone

this rambled old stone

 

And we promised to go

Find Van Gogh

 

Sunflowers of yellow

Dancing - swaying - so mellow

 

 



 

 

Leaves flittering in the breeze flow

Is there anything else love needs to know

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



The Art in Walking

 

 

 

Walking is not of here-to-there spaces

 

It is complying to the heart’s measured paces

 

Thereby disengaging the mind’s constant thinking

 

 

Walking requires senses to be linking

 

Carelessly upon the steps of rising and sinking

 

Fortunes and values casted upon the village
 

 

 

Walking out and away from the collector’s millage

 

That ravages the stores and consumes in pillage

 

Frees the dreaming mind’s untamed creatures
 

 

 

Walking is finding nature’s teachers

 

Allowing imaginations to form into fanciful features

 

So that the twisted forms become artful mazes
 

 

 

Walking is how one faces

 

The brain’s constant self minding

 

To become lost in the woods of finding

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Love is a Recluse

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her weary unfocused eyes

 

languished for hours

 

upon the  troublesome shadows

 

that arrived and kept arriving

 

uninvited and unwelcomed

 

 

However, not all the wraiths

 

were unfamiliar

 

to the echoing voice that whispered

 

in her ear –

 

“Why are you still here”

 

 

 

 

 

The room was not unfurnished

 

nevertheless it was remote;

 

emotionless

 

empty and hollow

 

as a lover’s broken promise

 

 

 

The windows were unfettered

 

naked as condemned soul

 

the glass panes dulled with a glaze

 

so that the sunlight diffused into vapory auras

 

of ghostly images

 

vestiges of the many days

 

that had fallen away

 

and that now, return to sit in wake

 

 

 

 

 

Wooden floors covered with dust of despair

 

marked and scraped by the endless pacing

 

of madness gone desperate

 

seeking a way out

 

 

 

There are two doors; both unlocked

 

yet, neither door opens out

 

allowing in only that that she fears most

 

 

 

 

She sits and holds her eyes

 

blankly staring

 

into her mind

 

looking for her past

 

while her insanity ignores

 

the question, “Why are you still here”

 

 

 

 

Her beauty was once her guise

 

that invited in her desires -

 

now it drapes over her

 

to shroud her remorse

 

and to spurn anyone’s touch

 

 

 

 

 

Her gentleness was once filled with music

 

verse and poetry

 

now it disavows itself from her thoughts

 

cursing in anger the one question of regret-

 

 

 

“Why are you still here”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Kind

 

a moment to be gentle

does not require harsh times

so to offer someone

or to oneself

a warm thought

 

there are many deep wells

drying in despair

that require replenishment

with the waters of charity

poured to raise the levels of empathy

and sympathy

one will not become vulnerable

sharing human weaknesses

nor troubles

 

storm clouds blacken the sky

over the canopies -

life’s fragile structures

to shield from the raging winds

that leave destruction in their wake

one need not look far for someone

who is lost in the storms

to offer a way home

for in the common community

all  have been or will be

forgotten

by excesses that exclude

 

do not be intolerant

of ideas or beings

who are unlike

as kind words are gifts

offered without self wrappings

or tied neatly with critical ribbons

 

to be in kind

allows one to be blind

to reasons or actions

that do not oblige

nor comply

nor satisfy

the image in the mirror

for that face

owns its own flaws

 

 

one need not be a one of a kind

nor aspire to be in kind

for kindness is to live

seeing oneself in the eyes

of a newborn baby

as a child’s hand - in hand

of dying loved one needing tenderness

a butterfly sitting upon a flower

 

kindness is our humanity

it is a pleasure of well being