When the wind blows true through the land
Rustled leaves hold trees that withstand
Tempered gusts with vicious intent.
So long lives the day when air’s spent
Upon the ridge: that jagged rock,
Unchanged as what the ticking clock
Tries to track but must then accept:
The perfect clock is still inept.
Time will toss and tumble your walls,
Then cause your green thick hair to fall
But know to us, whose lives go quick
Your life’s a day to our one tick.
Nathan Cayea is a studying toward an English degree in Upstate New York.
SEA SHORES.
On the seashore where the pebbles toss
The waves encrusted in their noonday vaults
The ripples answer forth
Over the sand dunes of crescent hills
To recover by pushing around
The shingles on the silvery sand
The annals of the irrecoverable past
Amidst pebbled hands of the time past.
Shadows across the ship’s mast
Shadows under the mermaid’s wings
Shadows over the seaweed’s bark
Shadows entangled with crystalline dreams.
All day along the wind
The wind has been whispering
To explore
The leaning buds
On the stony shores.
The question whether one
Should exit or not
Or to find a way or not
Out of the emotional contest
Of wavery wandering thoughts.
At the death’s gate
Time stand still
The laurels of significance
The points of departures
Of the perpetual vigils
The glory of animals
Lost somewhere
In the sultry afternoons
In alcoves of seedy conscience
Entombed in twilight bowers.
All day along
The wind has been
Instructing me
To burst forth
Like the nascent songs
Beyond things explained
Insubordination to gravity
Or to other surmised tones.
The show of despair
In the face of stranded thoughts
An assemblage of mobile fantasies
In waxworks of delineated dross
The curvatures of obscure thoughts.
Do I swallow the shiny presence
Or perpetuate the sublime sores
Pour water to subterranean streams
To the termites or their cones.
Such a surprising name to see on the site, Nate. I’m glad to see you’re writing. And choice subject matter. E and I were just up at Mohonk squeezing lemons in early June. Keep it up. Hudson Valley represent.
Location, location, location
does not necessarily apply in poetry. Bons Mots!
Having said that, that location really doesn’t hurt either.
TREE TOPS.
The wind lives in the tree tops
Visiting plantains at invitation
Serrating waterfall in eddies
Fragmenting the sown
Into shifters of the unknown.
Into that solitude of curves
Where expressions reside
Without end like eternity
Casting pebbles of fluidic images
In expanding circles of universe.
There the verbs
And the nouns
Get bewildered
Failing to root out
Incomprehensibility
Lamentations in sounds
For some sovereign sensibility.
Demolished by beauty & happiness
A capability of gestures still to arise
A challenge for the attempters to try
An avenge on shaders of the paradise.
Durlabh Singh.