The trains blues/ For BB

Moving through stations of time,
Trains move with a steel chime.
And a bluesman strums to the trains’ shuffle,
As the train pulls through many a mile.

Passengers come in and listen, for the train is now muse
And paint themselves in the bluesman’s blues.
Yet every passenger moves to their Toulouse ,
But the train is the bluesman’s only sooth.

His rhythm his blues, his one and only muse.
The stations are left behind.
But the train kept a rollin’,
And the shuffle he kept –a-playin’ .

/* Fare thee well BB KING
Any one who knows me , or has been reading this blog would know that the first thing to hit me when I think of trains is Steven Wilson/Ptree/In Absentia. Also the idea of travelling bluesmen (especially like good ol' dylan in 'I'm not There') is a very fascinating one to me. And what can I say of them blues? Like BB King says ' a baby cries cuz the baby got the blues ! ' Guess we all need to strum that shuffle once in a while , to the rhythm of the sixty ton angel, falling to the earth. Yes that was a reference. Yes the whole thing is a metaphor.*/

Canopy

A specter of sun,
Breaking through dark canopies,
Lighting roads once dark,
In the light all is too stark.
Shine through the canopy of my mind,
Bring light to deepest roots,
Shine on till the roots touch the soil.
Don't become too bright, don't melt, don't fret,
Rise over the horizon,
And never be swallowed by the sea,
Rise and Stay,
Like all of life served onto a tray,
Rise over the tree's canopy,
As elegant shafts of light in my mind play.

The long winter's night has been left to fray,
This long sought summer,
Please stay...

/* A poem out of place on this blog? Well I let Mr. Mayer do the explaining

The Manic Road

The manic road meets the frenzied sky,

As words in indelible ink sprawl the sunset,

Like the most beautiful evening,

Of the ones from childhood’s treasury.

The manic road is long gone,

Yet it appears in my dreams,

To wake me in cold sweat,

To remind me of all that frenzy.

So to the manic road I have returned,

And sped down it ,

To the point of no return,

And now sleep does not break in cold sweat.

The manic road now runs within me,

Showing me how to walk other roads,

As for words sprawled in indelible ink,

Some words cannot be erased.

/* 'Things never get better , you just get used to it. Closure is the best you are gonna get.'If you follow the prog side of the world you may well be tempted to substitute the last line as Hand.Cannot.Erase. It is the wall for the facebook generation*/

Poets United

The guys at Poets United were kind enough to sit down for an interview. Keep fighting the good fight PU

Click : Link

Blank Space

A big shout out to propel steps for having published blank space volume 1. It featured my story 'waves' from the previous year. Great work Dinesh and co. Keep up the good fight.

The Clown

All the children laughed at the clown,

But I knew someone who made everyone laugh knew more of life ,

than a joke could summarize.

And then I looked deep into the clown’s eye,

And there was a picture of such might,

Beneath all the mirth was so much pain in rewind,

People gone, people left, all the scars left,

And all they left was a joke.

And yet the clown paints his face

And that inner world gets lost in the maze.

And the children laugh.

And the pain subsides. 

The Sun Also Rises

Misfit sun in a cloudy sky,

Peeping through fleeces of cloud,

Into worldly  windows of glass hearts.

Shafts of orange light,

Like a wound in the clouds.

Misfit sun on a cloudy day,

 A distant moon tumbles,

Onto the horizon,

To dethrone the day,

Instill  the night.

Seal the sun into a nightly cage,

The glass hearted clowns arise,

Clowns to make a joke,

Of all that is human,

But know this clowns,

The sun also rises.

/ Every misfit has his crowd, and the clowns don't matter anymore/