I watch as she walks
down the rain swept streets,
following with my eyes,
her hips that sway
with a blind undulating rhythm;
and hear her singing
among white butterflies
that float over fields
of daffodils and tulips.
April, who in the morning
leans forward,
to peer at her reflection
in the bathroom mirror.
scar the Earth
with superimposed limits
until celestial sphere's music
descends from
an unseen alien star:
how many horrible
mortally sick conquests
must the radical right make
before arriving
milky way in their mouths
in the child shrieking air
of their bright colored toys
prison-playground.
A twelve year old girl,
brutally murdered,
now is dead!
the vain hopes, of your mother and father
had already fled, vanquished
leaving them naked and exposed
in their utter wretchedness.
Tonight, instead of snuggling
in your warm comfortable bed
you lie cold and alone
buried beneath a blanket of snow.
Soon all memory of you will be forgotten,
nothing can hurt you now.
The God that yesterday granted
your short life has killed you.
How love can cause such pain,
is something I understand full well;
yet still my poor heart aches,
at the futility of this sad world.
There is no magic meter
in my pen.
These words of silence fall like rain
or tears.
What made me strong
destroyed you.
An era was dying
as its beliefs miraculously resurrected.
Inspiration of fanatical hatred
with lyrical beauty
and stark imagery-
blind power with material form.
Here is another lush valley
of deep mysterious rivers.
And a city with bridges
that disappear in the fog.
Here is a city grieving,
and the wind carelessly tosses
the cries of ravens into your grave
during those times I talk to you.
What is poetry
but the conscience of a people?
A politically sanctified lie,
a nice song by impotent intellectuals
before their slit throats
grin foolishly at eternity,
insipidly shallow verses
of precocious youngsters.
I have always had an ear for good poetry,
and almost unknowingly
I discovered mid-stream
that its highly laudable objective
had become one of my life's guiding beacons.
They still put flowers on graves,
to share something beautiful with the dead.
I send this verse to you, who once lived
so that you will not die for a lie,
and will not have lived in vain.
The cars are black!
black are the tires.
Inside on the dark clothes
shines stains of dirt
and camouflage makeup.
Their skulls are empty,
except for fanatical echoes,
while their hearts are made of lead,
which is why they never weep.
With their souls cold as gold
they quietly pull up outside of town.
Deformed and nocturnal,
surrounding the village,
they command the silence
of grey glistening gun barrels
and fear like fine rain.
They go where they want to,
lurking in their pillbox skulls
a vague geometry
of formless automatic-rifles.
Poor, caste village of Indians!
Your homes hung with garlands.
The immense moon and the curry
with garlic roots preserved.
Poor, caste village of Indians!
Who could see you and not weep?
Village of incense and sorrow.
with your white washed walls.
And in the dead of night,
the night anointed by twilight,
the Indians within their beds
were creating suns and mandalas.
A badly hurt cow
was lowing at all the doors.
By the outskirts,
smoke cocks crowed loudly!
The naked wind peers
around the corner of surprise
in the silver chalice night-
the night anointed by twilight.
The Lord Siva
has his Temple's lights extinguished,
and he looks among
the peaceful villagers
to see if they will relight them.
He comes, dancing
with ashes covering
his bare arms and long hair,
and writhing snakes
as a necklace.
And, with all the fires
smoldering sleepily in the hearths.
In ecstacy the crecent moon
dreams of a thousand cranes.
Barnyard sounds and darkness
invades the thatched roofs.
Vague shaped, shadows
are sobbing in the mirrors.
Darkness and water, water and darkness
reflect from the village wells.
Poor village of Indians!
Your homes hung with garlands.
Flee for your lives,
the neo-facist Maoists are comng!
Poor village of Indians!
Who could see you and not weep?
Leave her far from the Ganges
with no flowers for her hair.
They converge from the outskirts
toward the middle of the village,
the death rattle of eternity
permeates their weapons.
They move in squads
from home to home
a nocturne in fatigues.
The sky, so they fancy,
is a showcase
for a thousand points of light:
from their self created night.
The peaceful village,
free from fear,
never locks their doors,
Many neo-facist Maoist
ambush them.
Time stops in its tracks
and the pipes of ganga,
to allay apprehensions
weave tapestries of monsoon rains.
Among the trees
rose a flock of screams.
The long knives cut the breeze
that the bullets perforated.
Down the streets of shadows
all the villagers are hearded
with terrified eyes
and wailing children.
And along the dusty streets
the sinister shapes sneer
leaving behind them
swift wirlwinds of decapitation.
All the villagers are gathered,
by a local shrine,
under a people tree.
The village elders, full of wounds,
enshroud their grandchildren.
Sharp and vicious the glinting blades
sever all the villagers heads,
while sporadic gunfire
accentuates the night.
The God Siva dances
alreading healing
the world's soul
from the scar
of this carnage,
While star's tears
form on the chopped off heads
of the little children.
But the neo-facist,
pretending to be Maoists,
come poking amond the decapitated corpses,
by which, stark naked,
the mind's image is seared.
Silence a vulture
circles above the square.
Severed skulls
lie all in disarray.
Only one survivor
huddles beneath a pile of bodies,
where through the night
lilies of white flashes blossom.
When all the homes
were only sepulchers
marking the Earth,
the indiffernt dawn arrives
carrying her basket of flowers.
Poor, caste village of Indians!
the neofacists pretending to be Maoists
drive away under dark branches of silence,
while around you
are the buzzing of flies.
Poor, caste village of Indians!
Who could see you and not weep?
Let them search for you in my eyes.
The puppet play of moonbeams and shadows.
In India a caste villages was wiped out, we are told, by Maoist.
But several things come to mind. First, Maoist, of all communist
philosophies, was one of the least popular - even in China in the 60s under
chairman Mao's rule. Second, Maoists do not believe in caste distinctions
making it impossible for 'Maoists' to commit such an act. Third,
the current government of India is headed by a right-wing party that is the
pawn of America's radical-right who have been since the early 80's, covering
up their "politics of terror" by having their field agents pretend to be
communists. Fourth, this government in India is now in political
trouble; and, it won an election utilizing phony acts of terror during
the elections, by supposed Muslim's, which immediately stopped after the
election. Fifth, a remarkable coincidence, we're expected to believe
that simultaneously, part way around the world, 'Maoists' herded people
up stairs in a department store in Turkey, without a fire escape, and burned
the people alive. Sixth, arguably we now can add India to the growing
lists of radical right sponsered terrorism parading as communism, as is
the case with Turkey, Mexico and Columbia where the radical right, by means
of their bogus lefist army, get a large share of the money from the drug
and trade; which they've tried to cover up, in America, by immasculating
the IRS and instituting privacy laws in banking (a reversal of their previous
policies) designed to cover up their lucrative drug money, and their field
operaters illegal incomes and income tax evasion. All for the sake
of children, Amen.
All forests are one village, from the start
of our epoch, but Canada, Brazil, Russia-
They're only copses of that vast sylvan
wasteland that bellows it's demonic malice.
The mighty Atlantic lashes out and the Pacific Ocean,
and the tundra lies buried in white,
but the forest-tides
to the glinting Gulf of Mexico.
Neither in broad planes, nor in desperate deserts,
but only in the forest, only the woods
does one commune with the heart of nature, savor solitude
and love deep pools of filtered green light.
The sun shines from its marble blue heights,
shines down its bright oval face,
and the green spires
are a river's waves.
Sylph palaces in secluded sylvan refuges and red towers,
and castles nested among trees and crystal fountains
guard: golden visions
etched on moss emerald parchment.
And at twilight, darkening mauve shadows
ensconce nodding ferns, under
boughs and branches, ensconce
as if a pictorial study of chiaroscuro.
And at a secret signal
the forest resounds;
trees, ignite into green flames,
spreading and dispersing into dark-sombre hubris remains.
Basalt formations glisten, and dark before them
beneath them, strong clear rivers-
alive. Wild primordial forests;
just a storm tossed leafy sea?
Scrutinize more carefully: the timeless wonder of trees;
tops reflecting light:
the sky where clouds nestle into recondite dreams
where rainbows float: the forest so variable like the sky.
Wild west wind, is the second master
of the forest, rushing
like traffic on a freeway
up valleys and down draws and over ridges-
And trees sing out and their root-toes cling,
knowing the touch of their master.
The light fades, the sun's eyes slant
like a beautiful oriental woman's.
Wind whipped rain falls on the canopy
like an ancient, primordial ocean
bent, swaying in the darkness
as if a curtain descending,
ushering in the end of time,
more and more sombre,
Gothic spires disappearing in clouds,
terrible grey shapeless masses.
And like layered ages they all rise upward
on the rough, rugged mountains,
and the cold, wet maritime wind blows
from the sea, sowing stupefying sorrow.
And hikers huddle under a protective outcrop
comparing their maps with the aid of a light, afraid
searching for familiar landmarks,
but not seeing any.
And in the dense underbrush
they hear a large something, and the forest scents the air
among the trees; shelter is as rare, in this ocean
of green, as snow in the Sahara.
But blasts, too, deafening bursts
of gunfire are discharged
for the radical right elements of society
use thrill killings and paramilitary groups
to make their brand of neo-facism
seem necessary to ok oppressing youths,
or usurping rights, or creating masters and servants,
storms sweep in and rain forests obliterate Seattle, obliterate
St. Louis, obliterate New York.
Torrential rains respect
nothing, drive down
walls, bury buildings, sweep away
all before it in antediluvian floods.
And, who knows, perhaps in a century, or
another millennium, wild packs of timber wolves
from the frozen ancient North
will hurtle at our old, perennially young World,
Cover the great plains,
cover Athens, and Rome, and London-
and we Neanderthals in caves,
will pray to cruel gods still demanding human sacrifices.
And, then, at the end of time, Bradburian Martians
will arrive on Earth;
and, all they'll see are verdant forests,
azure skies and blue seas, a vast pristine wilderness.