Dreams, visuals so fine;
But not always are gay.
A medium to make our soul shine;
As dazzling as a sun ray.
Milleniums pass in a blink of eye,
Still wondering about that silent night ,
That terrifying scene walking by !
Leaving me with absolute fright.
......
We arrived and it wasn't so bad. Really
not at all troubling, the way you sometimes hear.
The anthems were fish out of water.
The sweaters never grew past our chins.
On the bus tour we discovered that much of the material
came from the stage fright years, uninhabitable
to mere stationary cyclists, but: home is home.
My cube was tidy. I kept swordtails and guppies.
The rain gutters were made of brass. True,
the operas suffered from the failure of the inevitable
......
The Thunderbird flailed it's wings
in annoyance that it's lover was gone too long.
The ground shook in retort
and rocks toppled down the mountains
birthing an angry landslide
that echoed with anguish down the slopes.
The Thunderbird shrieked it's loudest wail,
in heartache of it's lost love.
The Heavens grew dimmer in somber spirits
......
Whenever the cold pavements stretch before me
and the warmth of my quilt dwindles away
I take him from my memory box
and light him, a matchstick of tenderness.
The world expands or contracts
in proportion to my imagination
by none will I be influenced
I stand firmly in my independent perception
Quill on a ragged paper what's your will,
Past ones waging wars and famines raging to kill,
In time's ensemble all actors paid on an interim, yet I think,
Immortal seem the words of a quill soaked in ink...
.
Quill on a ragged paper who's your kin,
Thirst for wisdom or shattering mind's margin,
Sorrows bought to light or corrupting brains as a blight,
All done by the stroke of a lone quill...
.
......
Flashing with hues of footprints in a rainy forest,
That storms in the white space of my mind!
Not again, I ask myself, what’s a memory?
A river that flows upon the pebbles of the past?
Or a Garden that nourishes my lifeless static?
Yet, in its fleeting dance, every legacy is crafted.
Neither the buzzing bug that flew to hurt me today,
Nor the marching mantis I tried to dodge yesterday,
These flashes are of the taste I had in drops of polio!
......
The Thunderbird flailed it's wings
in annoyance that it's lover was gone too long.
The ground shook in retort
and rocks toppled down the mountains
birthing an angry landslide
that echoed with anguish down the slopes.
The Thunderbird shrieked it's loudest wail,
in heartache of it's lost love.
The Heavens grew dimmer in somber spirits
......
A search was made to find a child
in a world that time had forgotten among the vines of growing.
Where giants roamed, and a king and queen dressed like cards
saw a land through a glass of rose tint.
Like splashes of a rainbow on a virgin canvas.
An imagination once invisible, yet new, began to play.
To find once again that long lost land, where a mind and heart ran free,
Having broken chains to cross new worlds and make insignificance itself
an adventure.
......
I dream to fly high,
Within and far away in the sky ;
Far away from the web of lies,
In the beautiful land where one never cries ;
My imagination soars so mighty,
......