To Soldiers
Gentle compatriots flaunting
unabashed skeletons. Moving
towards keystrokes and widgets
widgets to harness the mighty
swords of hieroglyphics.
Dare not be moved in such
wreckless words. Words
to imagine a future
floating amongst dire
needs
dire beaches.
This Fine Autumn Day
On Stephen’s Green her beauty shines proud
In a restless fit of old thoughts and dreams
A tender walk through an old mountain stream
Becomes a relic, more than Turin’s shroud
How many walks I made in younger years
Were filled with deep silence and solitude
And many doubts about Love’s fortitude
Drenched my mind in a great many of fears
Yet, now in older meek and humble ways
I search for a touch to come from your hand
Like an ancient jewel entrenched deep in sand
Longing to meet on this fine autumn day.
the lost Marconi
there is a lost Marconi wave
hidden deep in the temples
of the Aztec rulers
just before inventing
soccer.
herding the elderly to their deaths
or
singing old Woody Guthrie songs,
that one wave,
unaccounted,
floats breathlessly
in satin sheets
and nights crawling
with religion
Here's a recent poem from my poetry workshop:
"Sura 54"
hammer and sickle
amongst the mouse democracy.
a sailor’s grave tattoo impregnated
in the memory of Mujahideen.
an osama bin laden
party hat
adorned by
politics lovers who frequently
spat
and just as the Soviet moon fell under
Afghanistan
the stature of Albert Pujols
compliments the candles Little Richard
will blow out on his
Captain America
vanilla
frosted
birthday cake
