I'm no Knight nor Lord nor Peer
I have no fancy name
I am just me
Untitled
I have no stately homes
No manicured acres do I own
But I'm happy
You see
I have my crystal streams
I have my southern hills
My rugged cliff top paths
The white capped foaming seas
I have the howling winds
The gentle breeze of spring
The sweet perfume of wild flowers in the air
And natures orchestral sounds
A tent to call my home
So many paths to roam
I'm glad that I'm
UNTITLED

~

these words from a friend
jar me from my glass-eyed read
"even if we are not aware,
we live in memories" 
and in response i write,
"i often feel watched
by my loved ones passed on,
as though they are aware
of my every movement and deed,
peering over the portals
of a nearby dimension
as one from a portico"
watching what before them lies.

fellow members of a "club"
you didn't volunteer for,
didn't sign your name to,
you know firsthand
the longing, the aching,
the wishing and the wanting,
the praying and the begging,
the "take this cup" imploring,
remove it far from me,
the "i'm down on my knees
begging you please" plea.

grief...
a mournful response
a saudade for
what will, what can
never be again.
a shadowy wood,
where the seekers lie,
where lovers come
when lovers die;
where hope once lost
can still be found,
where signs and wonders
from beyond abound.
where man can touch
the face of God,
where the path to freedom,
with all it twist, its turns,
brings new meaning
and opens new doors.
within this forest
there lies a pool
from which to drink
and be renewed.
healing waters
in abundance here
to wash away
the bitter tears;
the lonely hours
here spent bring peace,
its lovely flowers
are rarest sweet;
the dancer learns
her steps again,
the singer finds
his inner voice;
here hearts unfold
and bare the creases,
here anxious thoughts
and anger ceases;
and psalmist's soul
here finds relief.

~

post script.

*thank you Bala, for stirring my morning contemplation time and helping me to reflect on what i have, as being a part of what i have lost. 

"saudade"- though sharing no English equivalent is best understood here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saudade

as apples of gold are wise words... indeed!  my fellow poets, you are a grace to me, a gift i did not heretofore know of; the door to a contemplative.forest i had not previously known.  thank you, to each who stops in to make a kind, a generous comment and sometimes add a very thought-provoking word. i am grateful today!!

He stood in the doorway
watching her sleep
His hands pressed
to his chest
whispering promises
he could not keep

He stood right next to her
his hand trembling, mid air
took one step back, then another
so he was no longer there

She lay upon sheets of silk
her back a work of Art
her scissored legs and arms
flung wide,
as though she was torn apart

She waited with breath held tight
her eyes closed and lungs burning
She wanted as though
time was right
Her world was centred
with her yearning

He hesitated to touch
such fragile beauty
his encroachment in her space
seemed an impregnable fortress
so he stood back
just to stare at her face

But she had raised the portcullis
and lowered the drawbridge

He just needed to storm
the castle
and dwell forever
where she lives

Aesthetics visualized
Dissected and processed
Non-corporeal to physical
Infinite particles vibrating
In unfathomable patterns
Disappearing, reappearing
Momentarily stored
In biographic memory
And finally set free
Onto the canvas
of reality

"May poetry be our salvation,
liberation and Nirvana"
Bala

so many ifs* in our daily lives

the ifs that pockmark lives individuation,
look-back crossroad regrets, daily harvested,
road poorly chosen, the kiss not taken,
a brother, for a petty sake, forsaken,
a sister, sea-drowned, left undefended,
by foolish parental expectations

many are the global conjunctions,
commencing and ending with an "if only,"
today's state-of-the-world curse,
uttered when reading the front page's
mayhem and senseless,
never-aging, new and old excuses raging

so many palliatives on offer,
what matters yet one more,
none seem able, none proven capable,
of essencing a humanity so simple basic
when the moment at hand needs a
redirection that a loving rhyme can sway

but in my inbox from India
comes a hope, a wish,
that leads a man to dream,
envision societies that could
surround-sound itself with wisps of words,
in the oddest places,
throwing us offsides,
in a make us see ourselves
in better ways

a morning poem before the TV weather,
a verse insert
tween news reports
of who murdered whom this day,
subway poems, a Super Bowl commercial
recitation that makes us lick our lips,
poetic literacy in small things,
a minister or president's speech
a recitation of a nation's verbal wealth,
instead of rejoinders and accusations

ah just a foolish notion at 4:22am,
there is no money in poetry,
thus its possibilities to soften and stem,
cure and elevate
enhance the perchance
of a different way to,
salvation, liberation, and nirvana,
seems so unlikely

but there is that small step
one could take,
leave a poem on the night table,
a first thought, a morn pill of humankind,
be a softener of a day just begun

a patient waiting
until my heart ripens
to be *picked

Realign my spine with beauty
truly break apart my walls
fall in love with my unruly
stance about the world all
drink in these, my lonely patterns
and scatter light as if by will
so things we made might carry after
lest you forget, to love me still

the world turns never so dark

light is seen
only with closed eyes.

~

Rushing upon slippery stones,
smooth textures fall
far below glistened riverbed smiles

White foam visions reflect,
gathering within misted whispers
as I stand naked, breathing in the day,
drenched in warm poetic waterfalls

Rhyming to the sun’s glare, always aware,
baring my soul now flooded in
this beauty which saturates my eyes

Fern leaf dreamscapes
trickle my fancy and dragonflies
skim the surface as love washes over me, cascading
desires in unending streams
*of your words…