early morning eyes
fresh from their dreams
the mind recalls
the heart confirms
all the emotions still contained
vivid images in technicolor
the hands summon the fingers
write,write, write
strike while the iron is hot
cliche, cliche
now the thoughts rush like a flood
from the forest mountains
the fingers are adept at all these
one with the mind and heart
and so here we are again
slaves of our art
redeemed risen anew
maybe still cold and perhaps even frozen
thaw
melt only to be solidified again when the sun comes
irony of the mind
paradoxes of the heart
listen
to you i am saying nothing
it is for me
in the labyrinths of my confusions i am trying to find my way out
trapped fly in a bottle
buzzing for its wish for freedom
genie
wanting someone to rub its ancient lamp
if you let me free
you may have four wishes
and that is not just a promise
it is a contract
morning thoughts
tunnels without end lights yet
there is yet no exit
and so you still find me here in my own shadow
fog and mist
trails filled with tall grasses
up there is the house of my intentions
a figure waits but i do not know yet who
surprises surprises
anticipations of life
these are all the reasons
hazy as a refraction of light bending upon a glassy vision
These are poetic experiments. Man's quest for the poetic element never ceases. He is always caught in the eye of awe. He does not make the rules now. The rules change depending on the emotion that time and space feed him. He must see everything with his wide eyes gaping. The beginning of poetry too, like philosophy is wonder. Look and see. Do not stop wondering You are the poet. And everything is poetry. Wonder. Wander.
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