Poems.

1

In front of the window that cannot be closed,
I sit on my creaking chair underneath the leaky ceiling—[What a sieve of a sealing!].
I pick up my pen in dreadful apprehension
Of the words that might flow from its ink.—[Thou art me, mine inky inkling!].
{Outside: The clouds, in one thunderous finale
Blast into infinite smithereens of bulbous droplets—[drop in, plop in, keep it comin’...]}

“Ah, afflicted apostate!
Cover thy paper, strike off what is trite!
And Behold beauty’s bounteous buff-et!”
The clouds giggling thunderously, — “O Hear-Hear!”
The overshadowed Sun, pouting — “O Here-Here!”
The swarthy trees with darkening barks, bathing — “O Dear-Dear!”
The incense from Earth’s soiled armpits maddening a sordid soul— “O Fear-Fear!”

Nudged by the wind below, it caresses my elbow—
The blank sheet: virgin, unfulfilled, restless. —["I need writing in massive doses"]
I try to look away into the whiteness below,
But the rain has stopped, and the window never closes! —[My penned up love remains ever faithless! ]
{Outside: the clouds part, the sun glows, the trees glisten,

The earth shifts, the pores open, the seed sprouts, the apple tree grows, and nature poses.}

2

We are two swans, my friend,
Painted on two different canvases;
Riding the belligerent billows,
On this eternally perturbed lake of life.
Silently as we watch in our loneliness,
The ripples of strife between time and man,
We feel life heave and then sigh beneath us,
And we are caught in it for an eternity’s span.
Yet, as we wave good-by to the passing ripples,
We remain where we are—never together,
You, trapped inside your painting,
And me, trapped inside mine.