The trees have taken in new dawn
And they are awash with sunshine
The sun seems new sun after cloud
Of a recent sorrow touched a belly.
Sorrow confused us like rain moths
Embracing death on windowpanes.
New dawn’s sounds are confusing
Since they are indistinct mumbles
About gods living in clouds eating
Confused prayers to keep us fixed.
I jostle with men to glimpse God
As ants of men to a smiling stone
Where He is spread out in silver,
Camphor fragrance and flowers.
I jostle within ignorance and war.
It is like clash of ignorant armies
By night, in eighteen day old war
When God stood a man to fight.
This is darkling plain where sea
Withdraws by a climate change.
Time to think of a spring break,
As assortment of tender leaves
With new tamarind and jaggery,
Wee nipple size cuckoo mango
With fall of mango flower mist.
Let an autumn await its waiting,
Raising dog snouts of midnight ,
Speaking bleak verse of despair,
As yellow leaf awaiting its wind
Its sarcasm lost to youthful sky.
Let us pass yellow autumn verse
And ironies for this spring thing.
We are a body words’ continuum
As we flow from old man’s grass.
Old man’s grass lives with a wind.
Body page opens to live and to die
Like old grass that died and lives
As idea for new year body word.
Death is a body word living in us.
Death is what stares at the word.
Between us two and common loss
Is tree with potential red flowers.
Take care ,you ,perpetual woman.
You and I shall listen to this tree,
Its bark ravaged by time like face
Letting the big petal drops falling
As tears from leaves,drop by drop.
I pour its red flowers in your palm.
Grasshopper lands on my computer
Upon arthritic stick legs, jelly inside
Leaking a bit below wobbling knees.
It is typing a sonnet on my keyboard
A leak makes fourteen lines so hard.
Keystrokes are surreal in midnight.
We replace kneecaps a surgeon says
Sadly ,we do not have old raindrops.
(Taking off on one of the stories from The Arthritic Grass-hopper by Gisel Prassinos)
My reading is fragmentary , wholly digital.
My grasp of a wholeness of the wired life
Is a leaf from someone else’s digital diary.
My verse is a leaf fallen of a winter of age.
My living is fragmentary, a heap of images
Like many-hued splinters in kaleidoscope.