Why cry over dried flowers?
They're meant to be straw.
Why cry over miniature roses?
They're meant to be small.
Why cry over Buddha's hand citron?
Why cry over the hidden flower?
Why cry over Mother's burnt forehead?
Her votive deathglow, her finest hour.
Slug – Free Verse Poem
That slippery slime,
That crawls out of damp places,
In the sorrowful night,
It wishes to find a home,
......
Am I blue or am I red?
am I bitter, am I upset?
Am I allowed even allowed to be red?
To be is to live.
Do they resent me for my resentment?
I feel nothing, I feel it all.
Emotions I am unable to describe, I draw them on the wall.
I bite my lip, I consume myself
I don’t see whatever it is they are seeing.
I am my only lover, but I hate me more than I love anything.
......
Free Verse Poem
We drink and use water,
Without knowing what it does,
What benefits it gives,
Water is around but has decreased,
......
She illuminates even the dreariest places,
With all of the vibrant colors she puts on,
Trailing sweet fragrance through the hours,
Her vague memory putting smiles upon faces!
Her visage glows in the wonder of sunny days,
A spring debutante, aging in summer's glaze.
Silent and mysterious, an enigmatic dreamer,
Vivaciously spreading joy, where she visits.
Star of noon gardens, where cardinals croon,
She is cherished by everyone, under the moon.
......
Am I blue or am I red?
am I bitter, am I upset?
Am I allowed even allowed to be red?
To be is to live.
Do they resent me for my resentment?
I feel nothing, I feel it all.
Emotions I am unable to describe, I draw them on the wall.
I bite my lip, I consume myself
I don’t see whatever it is they are seeing.
I am my only lover, but I hate me more than I love anything.
......
Vivid spring rosebuds are awaiting sun,
in a magenta meadow of calm morning,
in the middle of our hectic, happy lives,
at the far periphery of the silvery moon.
The flickering, dreamy firelight, does a sultry dance,
Upon the walls of cozy evening, at autumn's arrival.
The fading sun left its memory, the crackling flames;
And bluebird sings sunshine in lush, scented tropics.
The shadows are in rhythm, with the whirling snow,
On the edge of chill November, flying by my window.
In the joy of swift, vivid seasons, blooms are coming,
For when nature's not singing, it's sweetly humming.
Ebony shadows on the ground, a torrid afternoon,
Butterflies in the luscious roses, pinks on orange,
Swift flight of clamorous crows, black on sapphire,
Off toward hued sunset, that sets the world on fire,
Mystical mountain meadows, wildflowers in mists,
With the bright future ahead, of still, golden spells,
Clouds on lustrous dawn skies, in sunrise lavender,
Varying the vibrant color by the hours, in summer.
Whether in night raptures
or in the amber noonday
fancies,
The mind often escapes
to that magical place,
of deepest heart desires!
Some are fulfilled, maybe,
taking on colorful wings
like lazy summertime's
wafting, painted lady.
......