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My Woodshed Memories

It was almost empty then. A few dried coconut leaves and shells lay in a nook. I always withdrew from the hullabaloo. Yet I wasn’t alone in that thatched woodshed. A chameleon on the bamboo pillar often stared at me, changing its color to red. I didn’t believe it was sucking my blood. Under the roof of my dream, I reclined in a cane chair. William Shakespeare gave me philosophical company. I could hear the Western huntsman’s horn. When I slipped into a snooze, Lucy Gray gave me a nudge. Then I heard spiritual echoes in the corridor of the Ode.

Family Tree

She creates her world at night, Her mind becomes a beacon of light, Illuminating the dark corners of her mind. She sees beyond her surroundings, And in the stillness of the night, The universe within her emerges, She scripts these mysteries. He crafts his art in a dimly lit room, His mind flourishes in this ambience. The designs emerge from the shadows, Like a blooming meadow at dawn. He sketches these creations, And then they come to life. I am a child born of the union of the two, Two worlds dwell within me.

While I Journey

Across the daily  bridge I stoop,
to gaze upon the world,
always with the option overhead,
two faces of the same mint,
or just as likely liquid mirror,
in the very widest sense,
but such ad hoc aspects wanting,
further clarity as time unfolds,
ripple of the passing current,
flutter from a proud human voice,
stir in the second musings,
the sort that flit erratically,
with side to side dawn chanson,
Am I lost to early groundswell?
when observing without ruse,
at the recess of each bend,
as I journey through the morn,

Absolutely Irreversible

A

I. Pin~pon~pan~pon~

The Wabi Sabi Museum
Is asking the public
For donations
To help pay for
The new hardwood flooring
With which
All of the old, blotchy-coloured
Cracked cement floor will be covered

NE

II. Pan~pon~pin~pon~

Two Thursdays ago
At around five pm
At the selfsame Wabi Sabi Museum
While it was quite busy and bustling
I overheard a woman say to a man:
“Most of the artwork here is walking around”

The man seemed to think for a few moments
And then typed something on his phone

Post Midnight Theatre (Dramatic Monologue)

The streets are that audience  I dwell on,
after midnight and later pursuit of intrigue,
with pen waving in the air so frantically,
as a wand attracting dream flights,
this magnet for dark undercurrent of imps,
I address them and other other worlds,
using the power of mind so focussed,
my thoughts leapt into the unknown,
without backtrack or retrace but I plod on,
my moonlit lips are sealed yet they emit,
shiny coal nugget whispers at random,
caramelised squeak nocturnal ‘s wry nod,
from the invisible and  inveigled  throng clattering,

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