Landslide came into my life without notice,
I myself am lost, not in moor,
not in cloudland, not in fog, not in haze,
not in markets, but within my
own polluted sketches.
Excerpts from my poet friend, Nabin Chitrakar’s poetry “Formless Canvas”
In the circle of time
changing continuously in every seconds
is the poetry –
The poet’s no conscious of
When? How? Where?
crop up as if shaken
all at once by the earthquake
the mind stroke to his poetry in a second.
The spirit of the poetry encountered
the blood corpuscle of half of his body
ceased to streaming, bending into fragility.
The remaining other half
gushed in its veins naturally.
Then the posture of his body
half immovable and
other half movable
being altered instantly in its body
confronted the torture of no limit.
Neither my mind sensed
Nor your mind aware of it.
But it looked baffled
in the tears of
illimitable and immeasurable
hazy in its eyes.
In the mind of the poetry,
the inert part of its body
obstructed the motion,
the sensed part of it
forced to resume its motion,
the result of which yielded
the awful agony and anguish
that savoured syrupy in its tongue
chewed up the immovable
to restore its ability of moving again
in very efforts of the poet.
I’m too confident
Like you do.
The poet will indeed hurl
the sense of immovability
caught in his living.
*
Riders On The Storm
at the saloon he blew his top that day a brave soul caught beneath the undertow
we filed into the road on horse back with our gun in the back
heads were swearing up in down as he frowned didn't want to be around
got spurs on my shoes with sweat on my hat the brow permeates an odor
whiskey woman have take me by the hand it was the time we took our stand
so we made our way out on a barrenn path together as riders on the storm
it was coming quick but we kept treading along singing our song
we were back in the saddle again with very close knit friends
a snake suddenly crossed our path was headed side ways
on our way to inter pass number nine with our steel wheel reserve
the storm kept on brewing but we knew what we were doing
folks in these sticks live as hide away hicks getting lost in its fix
a slip of the hand let me help you understand we were a wolf pack head together
was it a mirage we looked ever closer as our horses investigated the odor
we were headed south and the interpass was near a friend took a piss in some clearing
there in the distance stood the sign of inter pass nine we were finally there
one toke over the line sweet Jesus we made it home fine
we were the riders on the storm like a dog without its bone
now was a time of celebration for we made it to our destination
we needed to take a break on a long awaited vacation
just then an evil man pulled out his gun shot some of our men dead
what was going on inside his head had a face full of lead
yet we got revenge and shot him down
never again will I be so king to a stranger in exchange shot us blind
there's a highway bound for glory
just the beginning or the start of its story
we search for truth out of a garbage can
one blade of grass swaying in the wind
where do I even begin again
there are lines being drawn in the sand
when will we ever understand
the Willow tree sways in the wind
golden nuggets of thoughts to gather
prepare for the great here after
as the sound of glass shatters
Sad eyes look the other way
stay inside never to come out to play
we built are city of rock & roll
through the roll of the dice
with the beat of the tempo
telling me where it is to go
yet deep inside we want to run and hide
to afraid to expose our true selves
perhaps you want to put that book back on its shelf
when will we ever learn
one soul soars while the other will burn
its a choice we make whether we win or lose
now which pathway in life will you choose ?
We May Never Pass This Way
the close of the day
out on the patio
we stare at the wall
covered from the mere notion of regret
there is a deeper meaning in this place
to equate logic for fear
for I shed a single tear to help numb its inner pain
harken onto the moment in my thoughts
crumb cakes with granola bars left for snacks
the garden you had pulled the weeds back
the fertile soil permeates the fragment of its land fertlization
we humbly tred upon solace the thoughts will last
shelter lies dormant amidst its beckoning plow
still I need a shoulder to cry on
the Martini that you drank last night at the bar
sdt pitter patter of glasses clasping together
snap shot moments in my head
golden nuggets of wisdom that come from a higher source
the scope of the sun has tainted my inner vision
a soul vexed in its derision
we may never pass this way
time goes by so very fast
all those good moments you hope that they would last
no other better way then to bow the knee to pray
others might insist it ought not be that way
yet for today send a chill down the spine
heads today are in the walking blind
make sure you don't ever be left behind
many moons ago
let the real truth be told
the undertaker would attach a bell on the toe of the dead
right before they were actually embalmed
if the bell would ring
the dead were actually alive
many times before those alive were buried dead
until that glorious bell on the toe
There was a tale of a tramp that visited my grandma
it was thought that he was dead
until the bell rung on his toe to let them know
although those many years have passed
still having a great reason to grasp
my grandma would share he story
although today there is no longer a bell
I have such a great story to tell
many years ago let the truth unfold
one man who lived as a hermit
wearing nothing but leather all around him
had walked many miles in New England
he had thoughts of wild excursion in the sun
but what kept him alive was his deep quest for knowledge...
he survived many years ago
had a stone cave in Watertown, Ct
when rarely seen out in public he would often grunt something with French dialact
looking for every sort of food he could find
his only means of transportation was to walk to his destination...
he was sometimes miles in the woods far from public roads,
Way out in the middle of no where
he created a human obstacle course that was his very own...
many miles he would then roam
on his various stops people would often leave food,
Always seemed to be in a very good mood
walked his trail until the very day he died
the tale of the leatherman has arrived.
Women Empowerment
Trans Gender Rights
Abortion On Demand
A rise of hate in are great nation
we are the tool of the government & industry to
the slime coming out of your television sets
Don't you believe in what T.V.
or radio has to say about you
its always somebody else's fantasy
you heard it from me
cause I seek a quiet sanctuary
a place to get away from it all
a challenge to be free is a question of time
these are the days when anything goes
let's seek a solace
to be a beacon of light to a hurting world in need of love
life is busy when we are making other plans
hopefully someday you will all understand ?