The wing­less bird
is often at my win­dow
it squirms at plum­met
of the rain or blindly blinks at moon
it does not chirp and ask me no per­mis­sion
to peck on win­dow of my room at mid­night or at noon

It has no shadow and its feathers’re miss­ing
the gloss of dew and star­dust of the night
It turns to Raven –when I read it lis­tens
it turns to glit­tered quill in moon­light when I write

But inter­minably it comes when day’s in blos­som
it’s miss­ing wings are piti­ful regret
Pre­sid­ing over Salvador’s ”supreme ambi­tion”
it squints at books I start to write but soon forget…

”Intel­li­gence with­out ambi­tion is a bird with­out wings”
Sal­vador Dali

.….Leave the past to its shad­ows
Death claims life but not love
Often dust of burnt mead­ows
Paired with rain from above
Bears the fruits and the flow­ers
New Eden for lost lovers.….….

who claim poor Yorick being for­got­ten
and dusted verse of dead Shake­speare!
The rusted sword that cuts your tongue!
The dirt of blab­ber fill­ing shal­low
The depth of your pro­found thought!

You scream I am Witch of dark­ened ages!
And make the fire with the pages
That praises me! You bare sages!
Me! Who drank old gin with drunken Poe?
Who filled the skull with blood of wine
for Byron play­ing in his cas­tle?
Invited to soirees and rested on clover
Bed with Steven­son observ­ing ‘’… child, far, far away,
And in another gar­den, play…’’ ?

I am con­demned to burn in flames
Sus­tained by you with flap­ping pages
of poems read as short­ened prose!
The mas­ter­pieces of new ages
Stored in the dusted schools of yours!
The instru­ments of inqui­si­tion to kill me more~!

I am The Rhyme!
I will sur­vive the burn­ing blaze
Of foolest pages yet reced­ing!
The light of old will lit they way
To newest king­dom
Of my reign!
And not sus­tained thy flames will wane!

The shat­tered mir­ror on the floor
The moon­light bro­ken into pieces
Reflect­ing thou­sands of nights
That make my soul so rem­i­nis­cent
Of dark­est grief for fallen light
I used to seek with desperation

I looked for day but found night
Filled with the fear and frustration

And night by night I could not sleep
My angel left me in the dark­ness
Of nar­row room of grimmest thoughts
The cry­ing thoughts that were my masters

Then He would come
On win­dowsill his strange pro­file of palest
Pal­let of cold­est blue, trans­par­ent yel­low
Lit up by moon…his eyes would fer­ret
His dirty cup…
my soul would scorch
In flames of thy red hell­ish power
To fail my will…

I could not think.…
He handed venom ..I would drink.

Ded­i­cated to Edgar Allan Poe

I thought I would write a novel
I thought I would sing a song
I wanted to cap­ture a moment
and give it a life that is long
Or may be make it immor­tal
encrust it with tal­ent of pen
And give it Rach­mani­noff ”forte”…
and ”piano” of ten­der Chopen*.…

*Chopin( the music of rhymes. East­ern Euro­peans pro­nounce Chopen )

.

Your words —as sil­ver Knives

They always cut with­out res­ur­rec­tion
The ten­der golden String that laces our Souls
With pre­cious beads of days and nights
and price­less moments of Affection

And every time you slash that strand
I look for tiny beads to fix it
and with each time I find them less..

I take what’s left and try to mix it
With empty looks, and closed doors
With lonely nights, and last­ing griev­ing
For some­thing that belonged to us

The Spring of our trea­sured feelings…

This time, I may add sparkling tears
And mix them with the droplets scat­tered on the ground
But seems this time the strand will not be fixed
The tiny clasp of purest gold– was lost… and never found.…

…