The Boatman Has Grown Thin

 

The Boatman
has grown thin
He has shaved his head and beard,
limbs are very slight.
And he is wearing rolled up pants
a kin to Gandhi.
He plays his ancient
Oar and mandolin
With an even greater passion
Seen only
In his eyes and
Quickly nimble fingers.
As he plays an eastern tune
by a placid river shore.
The journeys seem
Fewer now.
He doesn’t sing,
Yet his gentle smile is there.
He stops to rest,
puts his strumming hand on heart,
Thankful for another
Day
on one side of the river;
A benign lump
in his throat.

Blue Clouded Streak

Blue Clouded Streak

There is a blue
Clouded streak
In the night sky
As if moon
was shining
through,
But there is
no moon.
There is a blue
Clouded streak
In the night sky,
As if blue day was
covered by
A velvet curtain;
dark ultra blue.
There is a blue
Parted stream in
The night sky
As the day
and its aspirations
Die quietly
Now covered
By purpled
darkness where
Only a solitary pair
Of wings is heard fluttering.

Go Last

Go Last.

image

1/ Don’t Know Why

Don’t know why
after so
Many years,
And after collection
After collection
of haptic verse
laid down
And written in arenas
Of solitude
and midnight silence:
-A decision to make them
Public;
Except perhaps
for the encouragement
Of friends,
Except perhaps,
For a heart rending love,
Except perhaps
For that quiet
and delightful terror
Lately,
That gnaws
contently, consistently,
About my errors,
And moves
The human family
Skeletons
to
Dance.

2/ Heart

Labours during
the day
like,
so many;
And at times
On the road,
And very late at night,
Or in the early dark morning,
In certain breaths,
Come
heart full voluntary deaths
Self inflicted
By outside coming
verse;
And by the music
And sound of words;
Enough deaths
perhaps,
that
at some
unexpected,
But expected
moment,
An aortic arch
May burst
In an
appropriate
conclusion
to the
passion,
ending all illusion;
With a single arrow,
Or many arrows,

And this heart

-leaking

Will Finally
go
Last.

Free Verse in Useless Times

The lights flickering

In the distance are red

and I believe that

I’ve totally lost my head.

The city it seems

is burning red

tonight

Not sure of

just what I’ve said

from one moment

to the other.

Verse pours out like

random bread that’s

passed out

for the swollen bellies

of the famished.

See how skeletal they sit

or lie beside

their mothers,

and are easily

mistaken for the dead,

like so many

of the others all around them.

A look is in

children’s eyes,

eyes with wrinkles

deeply etched.

Mother’s are cradling

their heads.

Hunger, pain

live here raw

like free verse

doled out

by parted

empty lips

in vacant

useless times.

Women and children

gather scraps of metal

in abandoned mines

at the expense

of fragile lives,

like free verse collected

in some

long forgotten,

still,

and useless time.

And all

seems random

here

and destined

certain

not to survive.

No need for

lullabies,

no need for the contrived

lines of verse

that rhyme,

It’s just all meant

to be so simple:

Death just comes

wandering here,

meandering

on its own

picking

left and right,

whatever

may be in sight,

like free verse in

useless times.