|
The Café
Whispers over coffee and tea,
Quests for meaning—absent or sought—
Crowds move mechanically,
Chess players and soothsayers,
Chatting and sipping and whispering...
Till meaning is feigned—
Rusted at the turnstile.
Patchwork of Reflections
 He has seen the other side and loves the landscape therein. Can you feel it—being draped in corporeal clothing? Yet outside, in the garden of one's dreams, all is possible. The wandering imp or the rube, whose demeanor is always questioned, still finds his nature of timeless joy; little fragments forgotten, much is to be gained. A poet's plight is beauty amidst a dry world that harkens at the doorpost. "Awaken," it whispers hesitantly. "Where are you? I want you near." cried the wandering soul, whose sight has lacked the courage to continue. "Where are you? Are you coming back?"
His other half, the omnipresent one—she who rides the unspeakable wave of being—is standing at the entrance of union, mute. The true sense winks at the stranger, who's resting at the gate—shovel in hand. Is it an unending dream of unreal time? Am I, the poet, pilgrim of the page, happy in this unending moment? The pen cannot trace what isn't there.
|