A Simple Sonnet

May summer's breath be not fleeting in term,

For surely my angel's heart will dismay.

Pray not let notions like seasons confirm,

Such sorrowful wrong as the natural way.

I beg of you stop not the music thus,

Her feet never silent agony bears.

I plead that the rhythm knows not love's fuss,

Made by her dancing; how beauty just fares.

I hope now these words don't ever lose flair,

For my heart they take to her on swift wings.

Guide firmly these hands heavenly muse fair,

Grant me that glory which naught but love brings.

Such are the wishes of one in love's keep,

May they come true lest passion now must weep.

The River Dream

There are many rivers. And there are many tributaries to each river. We are born into awareness in its flow, moving with the current. It takes us a while to realize where we are and forever we keep asking what we're doing there and where we are going. Each of us born in the steady flow of these waters think the whole life and world is contained in what we can see ahead of us, which is but a few hundred yards of deceptive waters. But until we move along it, we are never sure of how rough or easy the current is at each point of this journey. The thing that some of us realize and some of us never do is this - we are bound to flow along with the current. Some times in this journey, when the water gets too rough, we struggle to swim as if that would save us from drowning, and we tire ourselves and drown in it none the less. Other times, when the waters are calm and easy, we convince ourselves that we have mastered the current and now decide our destination. Both are falsehoods. We are never the masters of the river but are unwilling entities that are set afloat in it. Sometimes going under and sometimes just reveling in the pleasure of its sensation. But in the end the rivers and the tributaries all end up in the deep unending ocean. There is no more journey past that. We drown in its immense waters. Some of us, already having let go of our desire to control the waters, drown in peace, holding on to memories of the journey behind us. While some of us struggle till our last breath to find a shore that doesn't exist and drown in considerable fear and anguish. This is the truth about life. This is the only truth about life. That we are part of something that we have no control over and we end in death. The sooner we let go of our desire to brave the waters and just let the current take us where we are all going in the end, the sooner we are at peace.

Word Picture #1

The artist dipped his brush into the bowl of water, and drew it out with swift ease, pressing and sliding its edge against the chalky white metallic edge. The paint that had wet its bristles before in a thick chrome yellow mixed in with the clear liquid forming a swirling cloud of color that moved in hypnotic ripples. His hand paused in mid air for a brief moment, as his gaze fixed upon the canvass and measured the stroke that was about to be. He then jerked in to action and the paint brush traveled through the air, letting drops of now lessened yellow splatter on the ground from its head, before striking the canvass with absolute confidence and moving in transcendent strokes. The camel hair swollen with the moisture of the desired hue now left behind a path pregnant with a shade reminiscent of a ripe lemon peel struck aglow by the shimmering rays of the afternoon sun. The movements of the artist kept pace and matched the rhythm of the classical violin concerto breathing life in to the silent room from an old gramophone in the darkest corner. It was as if the notes of the symphony that provided the artist with his cues were streaming in to his ears from unknown depths of the dusty room's soul. Art and beauty were dancing in heavenly steps bringing to life all that needed to exist, which for the moment, was nothing but the old man and his canvass performing a duet of aesthetic abundance with gracious elegance in response to the unspoken request of the long dead maestro's still vibrant violin strings.

To My Cigarette...

A moment's neglect,

Is thy life begun.

Still I do select

As vice thee poison.

By some drunken curse,

Thou rush to fill these,

Lungs; horns of my hearse

Now bellow, no peace.

But when thy boon slow,

Flows calm in these veins,

I gaze upon thy glow;

How thee dispels pains!