Night's flurry


Circles of intercultural calamity
turn
at the very core
of the spoken,
at the gates of different camp fires
– with their sense of belonging colors –
all that follows food and honest greetings.

All I need to summon
the seeing
is a bottle and
a stretch of sand
where palm leaves, bounced by the sun,
shine in metal green and touch of white.
My eyes are the keys, stepping in my prints.

Jihaa!! Serendipitous layers of sweet
beat like waves
over all ones eye can comprehend,
over the one I one can allow
in times of no understanding,
in times of all for nothing,
nothing for importance.

Try me! I am ready for all tokens
of endearment
in public and preserved pity,
I am the apostil waiting
for the final decision,
the end line
to all I want to say.

Two times time folded into space
cannot withstand
the onslaught of different cultures
slithering like stoic snakes
through the rest of what we have.
The outcome is a given:
A richer, more complex who we are.




Poetry by Bob
Read 447 times
Written on 2011-01-22 at 23:35

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