Born in the East

Born in the East

I was born in the East

where poverty

and want abide.

An abundance

of yearning is

in the East,

where the sun shines

brightly focused on impoverished ground,

as it illuminates the earth

In explicit fine detail,

exposing every floating spec of dust,

and every wandering grain of sand,

every child, every woman,

and every man.

I have journeyed

and traveled to the West

to live,

where a filtered light abides,

Where women wear

their crowns

with increasing pride,

a growing,
and cascading tribe,

unlike the downward cast

and fabric covered eyes

of the women of the East.

I have made the journey

from the East to West

In the twilight of the

gently fading light

that casts

an orange golden glow

on the outlined squares

of all the lighted

and drowned windows

of the city towers

and western temples

all cast against the darkened

blues of night.

And here

I have found my life,

my spouse,

In a merging

of East and West

and in a mingling of heart

and blood

and mind.

Yet in my heart there’s

a yearning still

for want,

And suffering,

some of it derived from the

ragings

of the beast,

But I yearn for the honesty

Of humble roots;

For the open hearts,

that want and suffering can breed.

And there’s a beauty

and a yearning,

a familiar comfort,

of a kindred sort

in the night falls of the West,

that especially is felt

when traveling

at night by roads that run by water.

It arrests the heart

and soul as well;

In a sombre moment of

serenity.

There are so

many setting suns

that are all descending

in the West

and the poignant beauty

of this sadness

and their descending

all at once ,

is so great

that it defies description.

It’s a sadness abiding

in the feast

of many tables,

an abundance

quickly fading,

from reality to fables.

And the fading

sows the seeds

for fields of hearts

to be cultivated, to be grown to open.

And these

Fields plowed and fertile

are the very reasons

that I now

have made this land

my home for hearts to open.

From “Picture Book of Poetree” by PWChaltas

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City Haste

City Haste

image

The city is a grand illusion
Made of individual human dreams,
And if you blink for
Just a moment,
You will see
it dissipates
To a figure eight,
hope and aspiration, stitched
together at the seams
by human beings.

City yawn,
Shrugged shoulders,
Observations made,  conclusions drawn.
Abba sits back
and smiles,
And with a single breath
Reverts it all
to flowing grass and streams.

4:59 Am on Queen Street

4:59 am on Queen Street

4:59 am on Queen
The sky light blue,
And moon full.
It hangs bright.
We drive down Queen street
strewn with the
Early morning random people..
A flight attendant in
Blue and red scarf
wheels luggage
Round the corner
And the stores
They are all dark
But traffic has started
on the road,
As the rest of the
World sleeps still
Dreaming of the sun.