touch my hand,
touch my hand,
all day long (or
perhaps all night)
let me smell your sweet
perfume,
and i will not request
the taste of your
lips,
lady, oh, those lips
touch my hand...

I am,
however, no hero,
just a lowly poet
in the always
and forever
quest for the pursuit of
truth...

with these, my tired, aging hands,
i would weave a floral garland strand,
create a wreath of petals sweet,
place it upon your head so neat,
and in the setting of the day,
we'd frolic and we'd dance and play,
like young lovers do and for all time,
you'd love me and i'd call you mine.

Has feathers,
sleeps in the nook,
by a red rock,
and the title of this poem,
made you look
at my ****.

__
To see a photo of my ****:
http://beautyineverything.com/5048983478

say hello
to this screen
where bridges to foreign lands
are built every day.

Waiting for him,
Was like a,
Mindless abyss.
I thought,
This time I should give it a shot.
Add plus venture,
Into a realm full with pleasures of flesh.
Rather waiting to lie  in sepulcher.

Thence came the wooers,
On horses, chariots, planes and cars,
Courted me to the foreign lands of brand new emotions.
Greasy, exotic, curious  and even obscure ,
To satiate my hunger,
They poured,
And I sinfully devoured.

Ooooh!
A whip here.
Ouuch!
A tickle there.
Aahhhhh!!
The sheer unfolding of their classy work.

Every night lusciously they came,
Wrapped me in an awe of satire, skepticism and imagination,
Not to say of the bruises they gave,
Tears I shed of Anger,Pain ,Love and Hate.

Still I  followed them blindly and agape,
Because a new world in me was taking shape.
Of Shakespeare, Freud, Tolstoy, Eliot, Byron, Wordsworth and my then fav,
the great Gabriel Garcia Marquez.
A medley  of fantasy, fact-fiction, comedy, realism and romance.
Oh!
What not I chanced upon.
All emphasizing emotion, imagination, scientific and natural thought.


There was no stopping of these gnawing hunger pangs,
None lasted more than a one night stand.
The foolish me, unaware, cascaded in the fatal encounters,
Not knowing the pangs are of soul to reach the supreme ******.

Thence came a Seer
The Prophet,
The Wanderer,
The Forerunner,
It was as if he can rip me with his thoughts,
And see my soul through that tear…..

I distinctly remember that divine night,
The moment I held him in my desirous hands,
I was no more in dual fight.
Things started falling into place,
Was no more in that abysmal space.
Still I would say,
It’s a current phase.
This soon would also evade.
New Lover ,
For every new night…

To cut a long story short,
Just so,
Because of your low attention span,
The lover, the poet , the wooer
Was the great
Khalil Gibran.

i am the saddest man on earth.
my rock is mud,
my life has lost its worth.

savage, heart
so hurt
and empty
blackened pools of
pain, not envy
given into sleepless nights,
and pain-filled days,
where nothing's real,
where nothing's right.

this is the way it is,
the way it seems to
be
now i peer into a
dusty mirror
seeing little left of me.

Far, far away, in a kingdom long ago,
There lived a ***** King who had a **** made out of gold.
He ****** his royal Queen, he ****** his royal Knights,
He shoved it in the Chambermaids, and up his Horse--did twice!

From the Page-boys down, to the Peasants in the fields,
He even ****** the Flowers whilst reaching for a feel,
-Of his farting ****, to scratch up and down,
'Then he headed through the forest to **** the whole ****** Town!

If you seem to wonder why this King continually ****** and Farted,
Perhaps this poem will teach you a lesson on how Government was started!

A
B
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
Q
R
S
T
U
V
W
X
Y
and
...Z.

Now I know my A-B-C's,
...could you kindly
*******!

Love,
d

the way we wish
it was
the way
it ought to be
but
fate has set us
on a course
of would haves
should have
been.

On the streets of heat and movement
lie the evidence of pain,
she walks, he talks, the children run
throughout the burning rain.

I can smell the smoke of lifelessness
along the living death,
we talk, they walk, the sirens wail
today may rob our breath.

In the rooms of waste and apathy,
sit silent the insane,
she writes, he writes, the samll hand ticks
the hours fast away...