Always he was picking up and counting the pins
to distill the essence of rainbows
and find the symmetries of elementary
laws and eating leftover words from the table.
The terrorists had wired his house and he was
not aware of it. The wrinkles on the face
for the bridge destroyed, would not bring
peace within. Times were different, icy and slippery.
He hated only himself for the failure of ships
to sail through the scope of explosions
rage and tears. The madness of unchaste
happenings submerging the cognition.
His tongue was heavy, hands writing the epitaph
on air. The bald eagle scoops a bride,
slices the breasts for the green stigmata
of liberation. Ajmer, INDIA
Dear readers, this is my third book of poems, and inside are a special collection of what have turned out to be not only MY personal favorites, but also the favorites of many of YOU. Some of these have never been available in print before...
A people’s heart can be found in their poetic words. In history men and women have stood firmly upon their soapboxes and street corners, rallying the deepest beliefs of people to rise up and be heard. The poetrypages.com has offered that voice a new
Share
Print
Save
Follow
