Poetry: November 28, 2007

As the shells are shifted 
by the sands and the sea 
so am I, though I’m too busy 
to do anything but roll 
and wave, as she. Those shells, 
now the grooved cup holders of 
our dreams, were once full of life 
that burst at the seams, Molluscs 
that could not repel, the appetite 
of the tides and the teeth of it’s strife 
beneath the churning , grinding swim 
I would don a wet suit and rescue my pearl, 
but I have a dry wit, and I am not him.

 


And to the waves that churn 
Looking for fresh fires that burn 
To wrestle, to mingle with heat 
And return to the shore as a blazing seat 
And the ashes duly scattered, 
Among the sands. If they mattered 
They’ll be redistributed by Spoonbills, 
If it meets their demand.


Once the king of Abashar 
Was sitting on his own knee 
And popped back into his own lap 
His new throne, where a pot belly 
Used to be.


Once, the man on a fire horse 
Came dashing into my stream 
I promised that it was the last 
Time I would drink, 
He promised it was the last time 
He would dream.

 


COPYRIGHT SANANDA MAITREYA
MILANO 28th NOVEMBER 2007
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

INTELLECTUAL COPYRIGHT PROTECTED