On the rugged cliffs of the island,
a lonely wolf
looks down to the shore below–
shining and dazzling, kissed
by the moonbeams.
The wolf scanned the vastness
of the sea, then lifts its head
up to the moon…
to cry a song
to that beautiful moon.
But no voice came out,
for it has lost its voice–
Drowned in battles fought in the days
when the beat of the kill
was loud in the world of beasts.
The moon in her yellow splendor
saw the sorrowful state of the wolf;
‘Tis the same creature
that sings tales to me,
speaks to me
–thought the moon.
That night, it was she who howled
for the wolf.
(Poem #3 of series)
Hearts on fire,
(the first embrace)
Our eyes were shut
To the world
As I whisper my gratitude
to the heavens,
And she, her vows
(the morning grace)
As our bodies parted,
The wind blew~
in chorus with the fluttering
Of wings yet to be tried.
The iron gates, already open
This, and the sound of our feet
(as we leave this place)
Running is a flight to oblivion.
* * *
I borrowed the pen of Pablo Neruda,
and painted life in green
in trains of thoughts unseen.
I succumbed to the pain of Sylvia,
to understand the puzzle of despair;
stand grateful to Love beyond compare.
I tried to walk in the woods of Frost,
a tread in paths that are still unknown
to reap the seeds yet to be sown.
I sought the solace of Dickinson,
ethereal joy ‘midst the solitude–
whose silence was a face of rectitude.
I read them works–Longfellow’s, Whitman’s, Poe’s
and vowed, to be a drop of poetry in a world of prose.
* * *
the lone wolf in the pack froze
in the chilling year-round winter
keen is his skin to smell the thorns
dodging scratches, shield worn;
yet swords of tongues lash deep,
touching his holy ground of conceit
you can hear his eyes speak tears,
though dry they were and uncried;
and the ears are pricked and alert
for the next sound to watch closely
his nose tastes the warnings bitter
for city guards, paving bloody road.
Morning, she sets out to the sea–
A place where one solemn prayer
Rings out to the waves, to the sun…
Interminable ripples of good dreams,
Engraved among the pebbles on her toes.
Just another woman among five fishers,
Odd-pinnate leaf in a garden of wildness.
Zanies once crossed her fishing tackle,
And the spirit was high on the waters;
Mad laughter of a grateful company
Breaking any and all surface tensions.
Rocks and mountains, she’s halfway
As fate addled quest blows her away
Nigh and nigh, the tired drifter,
Oblivious yet advertently, ready for the waters.
On her knees, digging for wiggly baits,
Singing along with the songs of the outdoors
Old soul, and wiser through the years.
Restlessly at peace, running on sand…
In trance with the calling wind of home,
Of the sea…home at last!
*to Captain Badj H. ( May 19, 2015 )