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The sanguine shades of India
Flow in mantras through my mind
In hashish tones sienna brown
To ochre greens, I find.
The soaring slopes of massif peak
And roaring waterfall
Lead to tranquil rhododendron glades
Capped in scarlet, I recall.

The clamour of the market place
The grimy squalor found
In the gutters on the roadway
With a constant wall of sound,
In the bartering for spices, red
In wicker baskets wide
With the stench of open sewer
Causing queasiness inside.

Dustiness of sandaled feet
Robes of saffron gold
And the gleaming glow of polished bronze
To purchase, should  you hold.
Patterned carpets lay displayed
In jute and woollen blend
Whilst ancient hands on simple loom
Weave more for you to spend.

Ullulation in the air
As turbaned dancers spin
To shrilling ethnic instrument
With drumbeat adding din.
Wild eyed watchers flashing teeth
As rhythms beat the air
Encircled by a chanting crowd
With temperament at flair.

Thronging people fill the lanes
Churning on their way
Interspersed with sacred cow
Meandering to hay.
Children flock with outstretched palm
Surging as they do
Insistently to foreign purse
In urgency that grew.

The sea of dark skinned faces
Mid flashing whites of eyes
An intensity of gaze that takes
You jarringly by surprise
And everywhere the pungency
Of the continent in the air
With the spicey taste of curry
And a chutneyed rice as fare.

But in speaking to the people
I found their manner warm
And their love for caste and custom
And their cricket team was worn
Like a flag around the shoulders,
Like a talisman, so proud,
And their love for home and family
Reiterated, long and loud.

Overhead, the baking heat
Occasionally relieved
By a downpour of monsoonal rain
Must be seen to be believed.
And the total inundation
Of believers on the stair
Of the teeming seeking holiness
In the river Ganges there.

And then as quickly as I came here
It became the time to leave
And the wonders of diversity
Were beyond what I believed.
What was once a frank abhorrence
Grew surreptitiously on me
The splendours of this mystic place
Well deserve their sanctity.

Now far across the oceans
In my safe and sterile land
I am drawn to stare to seaward
To recall my thoughts at hand,
Out across the sprawling delta
Gazing far to sunset sea,
That special taste of India
Flows irrevocably, back to me.

Marshalg
13 July 2014
i stand on the grass,
and above me tonight.
the sky an upturned bowl,
no.. a collander,
with stars streaming
bright...through the blue
metal sky...
and thus the moon is, dinner plate big
and  cottage cheese lumpy.

and i hear the sea sighing
and fretting away...

but not too hard.
there is, enchantment
in the air.. .
and i wait a few moments
more,
in the crisp, winter
night's air... for magic
to happen....
before walking inside,
to a child asleep,
a husband reading
and a little blue, grey cat
washing the day away,
in front of the fire...
and i thank the night,
for the magic...
it has sent,
as i turn off,
the porchlight.
and enter into
my haven.
He perches on his black-crate bandstand,
stationed between the payphone and postbox.
The view from his seat never varies:
a restless audience of briefcases and knees.

He closes his eyes, concentrating
on breath becoming buzz becoming blare,
and he pictures his notes glossing Manhattan’s
thunder-colored walls.

Each tone fills the pavement, square by square
until the sidewalk is a harlequin filmstrip,
colored by notes coaxed from his brass mouth.

Passersby withhold their gaze, because giving a nod
obliges giving a dollar, and no one is inclined
to employ this trumpeter. But he pays no mind;
his own eyes secured until song’s end.

As long as his fingers are jumping,
he doesn’t have to be Gerard Wall–
who lost his wife to cancer and mind to the War;
he can be Louis, Miles, or Pinetop Smith.

When he looks up once again,
sun and spirit have faded,
and he watches the evening embers
drift out of his horn.
There's something crazy going on these days
Down at the city zoo
The giraffes have joined the high society club
While the monkies are getting tattoos

The elephant's are packing up their trunks
And moving to the Bronx
With all the hippos on a diet
In an effort to lose their junk

The Lions have stopped lying
The cheetahs have stopped cheating
And as far as all their drinking
They're both going to A.A. meetings

The orangutans are the ones to blame
For a pyramid scheme gone bad
Left the zebras all in the red
When they lost everything they had

The crocodiles are out sunning themselves
By the pool drinking Piña coladas
While the mother snakes go on Maury
To try and figure out who is the father

Yes, things are a little crazy these days
Down at the city zoo
But if you were locked in a cage all day
Wouldn't you go crazy too?
¤¤
Take the precious pen
and tuck it safely away
the words are not here
the ink will not speak today

Straighten the stark parchment
and push it to one side
the words will not appear
they remain hidden somewhere inside

Push my dutiful desk
far away from the window
the words do not need a place
when there are none to show

Store away my chair
make use of it elsewhere
the words have disappeared
and I have none left to share

Take me from this room
a quiet place no longer in need
the words are now so still
perhaps it is I they'll no longer feed
¤
I wrote this a while ago and fortunately I am not without words,  for now anyway.
This morning,
I walked with god and man, and animal

I've come to believe,
no other possibility,
He denies me sleep
as His insurance policy

some One wants to be sure,
someone sees His sunrise poem,
He selected this ancien regi-man
to be His admiring audience,
with deer, squirrels, rabbits, a red fox, an osprey
always complaining, why do they get
the cheap seats

so up at five,
no jive,
gotta get there early,
for a good seat,
on the dock by his name

watch the color blue transgender
from feminine elegy elegant pale
to peacock royal male,
the water,
a contributing editor,
phases in with a steely grin,
with ermine whitecap hints
and an orange marmalade sky homage,
I cannot try to describe

and here is where man comes in...

as the tableau reveals a still life
come to be,
a painting enlivened,
come to me free,
bursting with
effervescence and
animal life tribunes,
paying on...

strange...

my Pandora app
back to back,
plays for me
Gershwin's Rhapsody In Blue,
hard upon it comes
Saint-Saëns's
The Carnival of the Animals

and I
enfeebled amateur,
needy for a
word titan Titian,
can think only
this trite thought:

I know not who is the
instrument and who
is the
artist,
but virtuous us,
We, all, now-capital-buddies,
now, all, well-color-capitalized,
god and man and animal,
crooning a chorus of appreciation

let this "accidental" miracle,
this collaboration,
enthuse me,
to live happily
with anticipation
for just one more day...


June 2014
We will grieve not, rather find
                        Strength in what remains behind;
                        In the primal sympathy
                        Which having been, must ever be.
      
                                                                ­                 William Wordsworth



stunning and stunned,
perhaps even life momentarily,
            stunted  angry but enraging confusion

this notion, stirs a commotion,
primal sympathy, spawns poem

not a broken totem
not a stolen token
hand writ, inked in pen,
no golems in a modem
to assist

this just pure human spoken
an omen giving,
notice total,
this is one true ether,
or either it is not!

this primal essential assertion
a conditional propositional
that it is natural for man
to be deep sympathetic to his kind,
for which having been,
must ever be*

in Syria, snipers shoot children for sport,
in Nigeria, young girls to slavery sold,
the list, matter of many facts, well known,
needs not embellishment or addition,
the history books teach the children well

so vaunted primal atmosphere,
in these places,
are you absent, non-existent?

when primal was pre-creation,
spelled first as primeval,
in the era before the appearance of ratiocination
of life on earth
Prime and Evil,
was a combustible fuel of necessity survival

primeval became primordial,
man essayed to improve,
aging onwards himself to enlightenment

yet rooted in this prime number of humankind
is a cellular tissue that springs to life
in those who allow it, residence of the remnants,
original origin of the evil that can subsume
and assume

do not allow it

I can tell you I
will not lay quiet

for the murderers of children,
I have primeval hatred

the rage of primal sympathy denied
unleashed ten times greater

be wary when the best of us rises up

the snipers and the enslavers will die
by their own weapons
http://online.wsj.com/articles/syria-where-snipers-shoot-the-children-1402614626?cb=logged0.005713743856176734

June 12, 2014 7:10 p.m. ET
Children in Aleppo cannot escape their nightmares. Snipers maim and **** them in the street. Airstrikes crush them at school and at home.

Indiscriminate missiles strikes and shelling by Syrian government forces have demolished entire city blocks, killing and wounding thousands of civilians. One surgeon with the Aleppo City Medical Council performed 11 amputations on a single day in December—nothing new, except that field hospitals were seeing more of these injuries, even with infants.

Life in these field hospitals is chaotic and unforgiving. Some days, so many victims flood through the hospital door that they have to be placed side by side on the same bed. When there is no more room on the beds, they are placed on the floor. With all the operating rooms full, surgeons have to operate on the injured lying on stretchers in the hallway.

In one day, we treated three children shot in the abdomen by snipers. All of them were saved in underground operating rooms. We could not save the boy shot in the head.

We tried, unsuccessfully, to resuscitate another boy. I later learned that he had previously been declared dead at another hospital. His father brought his son to ours hoping that maybe the other doctors were wrong or a miracle could be performed.

Enlarge Image

A Syrian woman comforts her children after their house in the Sahour nieghbourhood of the northern Syrian city of Aleppo was bombed in May. Agence France-Presse/Getty Images
I met a local shopkeeper who lost his home to a barrel bomb. The day I met him, a ****** shot his 8-year-old daughter in the belly in front of his shop as he stood a few feet away. Both her bladder and ****** were ruptured. She survived, but it's unlikely she'll be able to bear children.

One child I operated on had been rescued after a bomb landed near his school. The explosion blasted his forearm open. He lost all the skin on the front of his wrist and hand. His muscles were shredded, and his nerves were obliterated—an injury that will scar and disable him for life even if his hand survives.

Another child never regained consciousness after he was rescued from the rubble from an airstrike. He eventually died from his injuries in our intensive-care unit. No one knew who he was, and no one came to claim him. His body was wrapped in a white shroud, and he was taken to be buried.

On April 30, 47 people—mainly schoolchildren—were killed in an airstrike on the Ein Jalout school. Students there had gathered for an exhibition of their artwork depicting the impact of war in Aleppo.

Ein Jalout had also been bombed in August. On that day, the school had organized a charity event to donate clothes for the poor. The explosion killed and injured scores of people—mostly women and children who were volunteering. I treated one boy who had the bone fragments of his best friend embedded all over his skin. His last memory of the explosion was seeing his friend disintegrate.

No chemical weapons were involved in these attacks. Such massacres-by-other-means have become so much a part of the daily routine in Aleppo and elsewhere in Syria that they barely make headlines. Despite U.N. Security Council Resolution 2139 in February calling on all parties to cease attacks on civilians and to allow easier access for humanitarian aid, such attacks have escalated, and aid blockades have persisted.

More than 150,000 people have been killed in Syria. More than 10 million Syrians are in need of aid—about five million of them are children, according to Unicef. The flood of refugees threatens to overwhelm host countries such as Lebanon, Jordan and Turkey. After four years of conflict, no peace or cease-fire is being credibly negotiated. No resolution is being palpably enforced.

Syrian children are growing up scarred, homeless and uneducated—their families torn apart, their futures crushed. These children must not be abandoned. Aid groups and U.N. agencies can only offer humanitarian relief and medical care. Much of it goes to refugees who have managed to escape Syria. Very few of those providing aid dare to cross the border and venture to so-called hard-to-reach areas.

I cannot tell world leaders what will solve the conflict in Syria, but I ask why sustained campaigns of destruction and starvation are allowed to continue. I can only offer what I've witnessed and ask the international community not to forget about the Syrian people.

Dr. Attar is an assistant professor of orthopedic surgery at Northwestern University Feinberg School of Medicine. He volunteered in field hospitals with the Syrian-American Medical Society in Aleppo, Syria, in August 2013 and April 2014.
I
WilL
NeveR
Weep iN
Fear. tearS
Gently to thE
Ocean swim sofT
Upon a tiny breezE
And relieves me of *I
My angst, my tearS
Are eternal in aN
*Ocean deeP
Rubies glistening
'neath light of the moon
as rabbits feast
and children sleep
'midst dreams
of a strawberry morning.

r ~ 6/13/14
\•/\
   |     Algonquian tribes called the June
  / \    full moon a Strawberry Moon
           because it coincides with the best
           time to pick the fruit. The last  
           Strawberry Moon to fall on a
           Friday 13 occurred in 1919.
           Farmers Almanac
God came one day to Abraham
Saying Abe my son I have this plan
See all these stars up in the sky
To your kin folk I will give life

So Abraham being a righteous man
Had two sons all in Gods plan
But being old he and his wife couldn't wait
So he laid with a female slave

Miracles from above
Ishmael and Isaac grew up
But a test came for his love
God had asked for his trust

Hagar was left behind
As father and son travelled the dessert
Where he had been called to testify
How he could pioneer and turn to right
Bring civilisation to God's light

Now we all know the test was passed
Or we wouldn't be here today
Speaking of the saviours who brought us to God's way

From Abraham came his sons
The messengers forever honoured
In Christianity, Judaism and Islam
Jacob, Moses, Elijah and Jonah

Zechariyah, John, Soloman and Noah
From them came Jesus and Mohammed
So we say peace be upon them all
And peace be upon this world

United we stand
For our ancestors were one
From the same blood we began
For the same Lord we bow...
Collaboration with Mike Hauser :)
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