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  • Poetry

    finding Mabel

    I bet you couldn't find her above the clouds
    A girl whose attire would make you proud
    So adventurous to life

    Beyond the sea shores' golden blue
    Her heart shows through
    Catch her if you can

    Turn envy into desire
    The beauty you got
    Will light her fire

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    breakfast at tiffany's

    You say you wanted no more coffee
    But how would I know
    How much more you could take?

    Darling, this is just like having Breakfast at Tiffany's
    Sparkling diamond rings, can we get something for under ten?
    I would just like to kiss you, hope that's for free

    Rich life fantasies and bad girls' dreams
    Prudence keeps you home at night
    Don't take the drama out of it

    Let's have Breakfast at Tiffany's
    Because there's just one place to go
    When you're in love and you don't want to show

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    holding on

    Yes, the times they have changed
    And the waters have grown around us
    I just didn't think the waves would turn against us
    When I jumped out of that bus

    Was has gone wrong since the bright sunny days in cold January?
    What has caught you up and made you grow weary?
    Is it the colour of the sea, the sunlit blue
    That makes me still hold on to you?

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    i would

     

    I want you to belong to me
    I don't think there's something wrong with me
    I just know that I would run to you
    Because I know that I belong to you

    I would go on hour long road trips for you
    I would dive in the deepest waters for you
    I'd do all I need to make you see
    Darling, you belong with me

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    Those Twelve

    A piece of May slanting its way,
    falling on the piano’s worn-out wood,
    a peace cradling May had this to say:
    the 79 year old body that you wore
    writhing and struggling two months before
    on a hospital bed some twenty blocks away,
    succumbing to delirium -
    that's all the doctors could see...
    They saw and examined the x-ray;
    they saw twelve tumors in the brain
    and alleviated the body's pain.
    They didn't see the spirit's ecstatic storm
    breaking through, blazing through
    the confused and delirious human form...
    The pianist was giving way
    to twelve angels bearing you away,
    the winged fruition of twelve notes
    masterfully handled with your fingers of rain,
    appearing as twelve tumors in the brain.

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    The Loving One

    The image of you
    sitting in the living room chair,
    the ears and eyes then meeting
    its silence and space and stare
    suffice to ward off distractions,
    thoughts of inconsequential things,
    meditation unfolding her wings.
    Never again to see your human form,
    never to speak with you again
    is strong enough to silence any storm,
    is sufficient for meditation then.
    Like a black brushstroke poised on a gleaming reed,
    an afterthought of the rising sun
    bending bow-like over the river's glass,
    we're a black butterfly, beloved One,
    one black wing your death, the other mine,
    the butterfly weaving an uneven line
    over the water - till it disappears,
    till there remains only the Loving One
    appearing as shifting glass and the sun.

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    Mother to Son

    For some months I have left you alone,
    For I saw that a flower does not grow
    The more easily with a rain of stone,
    Or insistence such-and-such should not be so.
    I would not confine you with my country's past
    Nor impose upon you my culture's cast.
    Questions about these can feather your sky,
    Can weave their arcs in a passionate style,
    And you can be sure I'll oblige with a smile.
    But if no questions stir and break their shells,
    I won't be bothered, I will leave you be.
    But I fear there's as yet no clarity
    About freedom: It is not desire
    Simply to do what your pleasures demand,
    To be in the clutch of frivolity's hand.
    A cell can be of gold, a comfort as well,
    But it remains, after all, a prison cell.
    You wanted to paint, you expressed passion,
    But you expected the stars at the start.
    You thought excitement was the kin of stars,

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    First Love (1)

    Long buried in the drawer
    the photograph looked at me
    as a dimly lit chink of a door.
    Behind my father my first love stood,
    violin in hand, her freshness all aglow
    on the stage of teenagehood.
    An old song softly made its way,
    a haunting of harmonica and piano
    calling to mind her standing one summer day
    on a balcony, then a balcony with snow.
    She married years later, while my father
    was swept away by an alien tide
    so that during my visits once a year
    I heard his drunken laughter masking fear,
    great artistic promise not quite meeting
    the luminous, long-remembered career.

     

    The photo went back in the drawer.
    The bedroom curtain tapped and stirred.
    Dandelion seeds were scattered, blown away
    as the summer light with the voice of a bird,
    a faint afternoon perfume, stood aglow
    opening a strange and familiar window
    to one...

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    The Glowing Arc

    The mother bird was often tired,
    foraged for worms, the bushes, grass,
    the fallen trees, rotting wood
    in the grip of rainy days.
    Each day was undistinguished like the one before
    with wheels, wheels. Chicks cried and cried.
    She knew the wheel of circling about,
    never far away from the nest, never reaching for
    the clouds, never skirting the forest's edge,
    until, it seemed, something else moved and flew
    instead of the one she once intimately knew.

     

    The weather had warmed up, a sliver of light
    pierced through the leaves hugging the nest,
    and pierced through her, like some distant thought
    at once familiar and strange,
    some poignancy perhaps unveiling her delight
    in which was lodged some thorn,
    lodged a feeling akin to what one feels
    while recalling young love, the recollection
    of which is at once delicious and sad.

     

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    Amsterdam Park

    Anonymous One,
    The mature bloom of yellow afternoon
    Waved at us, and we entered Amsterdam park.
    September spoke softly to beach and sand dune,
    Passersby, deer, trees, red-berry bushes, till the Moon-Dark
    Of ourselves and aloneness silenced words,
    Scattering them as though they were a flock of birds.
    My friend and I - we walked and walked and some profound,
    Vast and alien meditation suffused each trail and mound.
    I could no longer say the rabbit stirred the grass
    Or deer leapt; any movement that would pass
    Was rather some anonymous force bending space
    In infinite ways; the green-glowing beetle was Your Face.
    We stopped by somewhere and only felt there was no mistake,
    That we had never been elsewhere or ever could be.
    I say now that we had come to some water
    With austere presences, each towering tree,
    But it was Aliveness before the world began:
    The horizon and...

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