A Poem ...

Thoughts too vibrate . . .
Vibrate and the molecules run far and wide.

Some one must be there,
Somewhere to catch my thoughts.
The thoughts fly . . .
As they have colorful wings of a butterfly
Fly far and wide but never before . . .
leaving a mark in the space.

The empty spaces are not really vacant
All the empty spaces are filled with thoughts..

Thoughts that you think today . . .
Are also the ones that were thought of y'day

Next time you decide to walk beside me
Through the space and time
Think that she is not I but is a thought.
Think that you are traveling through thoughts.

Thoughts of our future discussed in sound,
in whispers Thoughts enriched with words and metaphors
Thoughts woven in the strings of phrases and images
Thoughts moving through the evening verses.

A poem . . if you see is my say ...
A drop in the ocean of which I'm at bay
come beyond these thoughts and dreams ...

When there happen a hundred little things,
Like the season's first flower by the springs,

Or the falling leaves in the Autumn time,
A sweet pleasing song, a haunting rime,

Will someone notice these mysteries?
And when clouds cover each twinkling star
And thunder is heard from lands afar . . .

Stained . . .

In the heat of her body
she scribbles his initials and her heart
into the lines of her palm.

Her sweat thickens now with blood
Into that bittersweet potion
of love and death;
leaving in the air . . a scent of the same.

And
when she looks back today,
she rubs her palm again and again
but the stain of his name
just won't peel off.

Thoughts On Transience
The silent woods around are still,
And quiet blows the autumn breeze.
Now golden flowers on the hill
And yellow leaves on aging trees,
Shine bright against the azure sky,
As snowy clouds come floating by.

Far below on the green valley's face
Lie steps of corn and sugarcane sweet,
I watch content, in mellow pace,
And feel the grass under my feet.
But already grows the sleeping grass,
And see, oh see the daylight pass.

She sits alone and silently awaits
For sound of footsteps on my way,
Creaking of that swinging gate,
And voices friendly,
soft and gay.
But evening breaks on the plain,

This day that goes won't come again . . .