Frail old guard.

By first star and last

He sits by the store all night

In pinching cold he holds fast

Against sleep and fear he puts a fight

“Tell me frail old guard

How do you afford the smile?

I ever wonder without a word,

Waving back he smiles the whole while.

 

They put him out to guard the store

To burn his life’s last embers

On measly wages am sure

His name no one remembers

I pass him by every morning

On my way to the job I hate

His smile ever adorning

Knows when am early knows when am late

 

Not a single word pass we just wave

A face wrinkled with pain and loss

First gives a gaze so grave

Then like sunshine on a wall of moss

Flashes a smile most charming

I always wave gently smiling back

I wonder if without much whining

Ever smiling I could endure such luck.

 

 

 

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My Music.

Sometimes all I got is my music

When my player breaks down

I breathe life to my flute

When I have no more breath to spare

I whisper a tune

When I have no more strength for my lips

My heart keeps a song

My cup fills

And overflows through my eyes.

The wanderer’s mission.

A voice whispered in the night

And with assuring command bid me leave

I adamant continued my sleep

And in the quiet of dawn

A Churning whirlwind passed by

Nothing remains of my hut.

 

Now I wander in the woods

Enjoying odor of fresh pine

Spilling dew off flowers

Now I wander the grazing fields

Waking the little shepherd boy

Who has fallen fast asleep

On the back of a grazing ox

Now I wander in desolate homesteads

Receiving alms of food and drink

And back on my way again

Undressing the cob in haste

Just to savour it a grain per mile.

 

So I’ll wander on riding on kindness,

Till I have built a warm hut in every heart,

For all wanderers coming after.

Then the churning whirlwind will come again

And clear all sorrows away

Then the whisper in the night

Will call me back home.

 

 

PS; Illustration is a picture yours truly hehe.

 

 

 

She rests up on high.

Many years have gone now

Her grave flattened and sprout

Whenever I pass by that field

I think of death’s mean hands

I see her seated in April’s long grass

Catching hoppers for the kids

Teaching them the Alphabet and math

One plus one equals two happy souls

And good plus good brings heaven on earth

Childlike air to maiden age.

 

If to heaven none has gone

Then it’s just the two of them

Her and God – seated at His feet

She rests up on high,

Only a little lower than the angels.

 

How can I tell this?

Without such interrupting tears

It is us who were insane

For having not seen the world – life

Through her eyes; – and for that

The world doesn’t deserve her still.

They thought her a flowerless fern

I say she was Aaron’s blooming staff!

 

In loving memory of my sainted sister Linda. May God Rest her soul.

 

 

 

 

 

Hail the King of Hearts!

Secret whispers

Etched on sisal leaves

With treacherous thorns

Of scorn and folly

Of such thorns made me a crown

They whisper in the dark

“He is mad with grief

Struck his own heart

By sword of mad delusion”

Blood and pain covers my brow,

From their crown of scorn.

At night they giggle and mock,

they laugh at my hopeless passions,

But at day they smile and bow

from those vile tongues greet me,

“Hail the King hearts!”