One night we sang an old war song,
About the “BOYS IN BLUE”-
The song was sung by “BOYS IN GRAY”
They seemed to like it too!

We saw again the river flow,
WHERE THE LINCOLN GUNBOATS LAY!
WE HEARD THE DRUMS THAT LED THE BOYS
FROM ‘LANTA TO THE BAY.

We saw Old Lincoln, on his knees,
All quiet like….to pray…..
THAT THEY COULD CUT ACROSS THE SOUTH-
A THOUSAND MILES AWAY!

Old Lincoln was so much like me-
I know his spirit cried,
For all the sarrows in this world-
And……the young BOYS that died!

WE HEARD AGAIN, THE ROLLING DRUM-
We heard the Bugal BLOW-
Tho all these VISIONS, drifted by
ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO!

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

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One evil the court protected us from

Was the brutality and whoredom of war

We hid in the grass behind the stadium

While young men played at combat for the gamblers.

In the Piraeus the battleships waited

Gold and silver changed hands

Even Amazons were recruited

To blacken the skies with arrows over Turkey.

Above the bazaars, within the garden walls

Artists made the best of slavery

Making dead rock into living gods, knowing

Protection was the idle fancy of fate.

In the evenings they retreated with the philosophers

Avoiding the queen’s women:

Foreign mystics sat near them,

In trance under the hot summer moon.

Had this Cypriot duke spent all his gold on soldiers,

We might have died together.

Under the influence of some corrupt flower

He fell in love you, leaning,

Coins spilling from his garments.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The Athenian # 3 Some Corrupt Flower.

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“I am not in the skies

I am not in the seas

I am not on the mountains or hills

I am not waiting.”

These words I spoke aloud

Your message – your death was long since past -

I am another meaningless oracle

The priests listen closely to all that I utter.

When I visit the shrines much gold

Is sent to the priests: they paint  it

On Apollo’s masks. I enjoy the silence:

They close their foolish mouths.

“Eternity will end when we  meet

Even tho’ we have not parted.

There is not a since or when or if or then

Only the never everyone knows.”

The scribes hastily scribble,

The priests ask advice and I say

“Men with gold in their pockets are more dangerous

Than the feared and accurate Amazons,

Arrows poised in their bows.”

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at The Athenian #12 Feared And Accurate.

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When dreams dry up…

How long can grief persist, in the human mind?
Only till the dreams dry up in this earth!
I reckon the darkness, and the murk,
I reckon the light and the radiance, as well.
But who can comprehend the shape of
A shadow which intervene in its midst,
And changes its character?
Why is my mind holding an umbrella of thoughts,
Against a cyclone, which thrash out at me?
Let me carry the coffin of my frozen secrets
And walk staggering alone to my grave.

How many time god incarnated into this world
Promising, to correct the ways of mankind.
And borne the cross, the crown of thorns
Or suffered the sling of covert arrows?
Those were the rewards for trying to correct them!
And the awards he had to receive for the effort!

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at .

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You never knew…

Yet, you never understood my fervour;
You never ventured to wipe my moistened eyes,
With your lips through your embellishing kisses,
You never heard the throbs of my soul, reaching
You as feeble strains from the lute of my heart!

You came into my life with out me knowing
Your proximity to my soul;
And sat on the flower bedecked throne of
My life’s life, where I weaved my dreams.

With the libation of my bashfulness, in my hand,
I hid behind you, looking down
On the carpeted floor, softly wafting you to cool
With my ravishing imaginations of a
Lascivious scenario, in my mind.

Can’t you be present in my life always,
Showering the ecstasy of ambrosia,
For us to live together for ever and ever?
In the golden dreams , I own and behold;
In my eyes as a flowering season;
In my mornings as a psalm of adulation;
In my evening, a resplendent horizon;
Till my body, spirit and my world, are
Enraptured by the dexterities of
The enchanting arrows of Cupid.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at You never knew….

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The tear drops trickled in the oyster of the mind

Enlivened into radiant pearl.

Incandescent sighs kept hidden in the heart

Emerged, as nascent sweet melodies.

The jingles from the temple of pulsating hopes

Awoke, the insipid, dormant senses.

The buds remaining in the dark stupor in penance,

Began, to smile in the golden dawn.

The ornate spring has arrived in our souls,

Our zealous desires have blossomed.

It was not me who kissed you in your slumber;

But the rays of the emerging moon.

Not my nail which scratched your cheeks;

It was only the cupidโ€™s arrows.

Not me, who hugged you, titillating your soul.

Could have been the scented breeze, from the garden.

Or the pleasant wintry gloom which

Enthralled, enveloping you in its mantle.

I will just hide in the slough of your breast

As a reverie, my charming cherub,

Making my heart throbs as the sweet tinkle of bells,

In a manner of worshipping your loveliness.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Again spring.

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Until when, the woes?

Till our dreams in this world dries up?

I am cognizant of gloom and radiance, yet

Who can decide on shadows, which intervene?

It changes its shape and character, incessantly.

Why does the mind keep an umbrella above its thoughts,

When storms of dejection agitate the mind?

Let me bear the black coffin of frozen secrets

Of my mind, till I leave this mortal abode of my soul.

How many times God has incarnated here,

To correct the trajectory, of mankind?

In return we gave Him only, a wooden cross

And thorns for his pate, and stealthy arrows.

We split, share and segregate

The earth, and religion, coveting gold

And wealth, and treasures; and even

Our conscience, with that avarice.

We keep a wall amidst us, isolate even our

Affections of the heart, and congenial exuberances.

We may throw away the epics and scriptures

And even dare to try sharing the Creator.

This post was originally published on Your Poems, Your Stories at Meanderingsโ€ฆ.

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