Here podium is erected on beach
And there will be yoga and dance
When the sea will rise from sleep
And sky turns full gold and cloud.
Upon podium will be yoga dance
Till the sun reaches rightful blaze.
Mine will be a journey to memory
Like a dance to a repetitive song.
In memory’s walls we utter words
Over rice balls smoothly rounded.
The dead will rise over our words
With smoothly rounded rice balls.
Next there is a crow cawing.
Dawn is next thing to sleep,
With a crow’s call to the sea
That rolls in waves of next.
The sea has next in the sky
That is next only to the sun
And a boat next to nothing.
Boat has men’s silhouettes
Next to a blinding new sun
That is next only to a night.
We are the day’s creatures
Our bodies next to nothing.
You may use an ampersand literally,
As a special character in password.
In our script it is the bluest of a sea,
With a broad shine stacked upon it
And crows that begin another day
With the recurring question marks
(Those creep in before ampersand
Is cleverly added from indecision.)
It is comfort to end the line with it,
Before the finality of a parenthesis.
Old men see camel’s high neck in sky
The way it moves its jaws at the stars.
Stars are at the end of the high neck
Situated in their luminous night sky.
Desert is their breathless milky way.
Old men defend the right to be mad
When they see the young men dead
And pretend comedy on high neck.
(reading W.B.Yeats’ poem “why should not old men be mad?)
The sky is filled with pot-holes.
I saw loved ones disappearing.
We have this humor all around.
And I am as yet fully appeared.
I shall enjoy humor on the side
Before I disappear in a pothole.
The poets loved poems in forest
When all you heard is the voices
Under old trees that went kaput
And new trees swept an old sky
But a sky remembers the poems
Drops them down like murmurs
For the other poems to imagine
To recognize voices of the dead.
(remembering the wonderful poet Tom Clark who died a few days ago)
Her poems were incomplete,
One image hopping to other.
But she meant a lot by fever
Of which she died, inchoate.
Her life was just a fragment
From a whole of her poetry.
You reader ,likely complete,
Makes her fragments whole.
Remembering the brilliant poetry of poet Joan Murray (1917-1942)