The Happy Wanderer

Some pictures remain latent Some jigsaws incomplete Some ideas, still nascent, Some dreams, not replete. Some pathways extend from by-lanes In the old mind's new furrows. Buckling in cobblestone pathways To the edge of a beanstalk Or the end of a rainbow. Some wishes pop into the garden Of a bright day's best face. Juggled by the harrows In the rocky field's edifice. Some actions go a-begging, Some resolutions, snapped in two. While alleyways are opened For fancies, strong-willed and true. And herein, tossing and turning, Wizened passions seethe in the turmoil. Worn and spent and weary, Send their siblings a-churning. The molding execution Under the brunt of persecution Retains her fancy colors And mutters a few curses But no more. Jerked before the threshold Whence dust and work Would dress her down She folds her arms In the deep relief and mild chide Which are the gift Of ignorance.

Cascades of ink splayed over the floor Rustling paper, groaning windows. The pirouette of the calendar as it lifts its chin up, mockingly. And a dull brown table, except for some motivating dishes Which sit upon it alluringly, but impatiently. Ink whisked over yellowing paper An exasperated shadow against the curtain Silhouetted against both fancies and targets. Now the kink the mouse, next the gentle rub of the keyboard Writing what, to whom, and why? An archaic style, a cliched theme, a verbose manner Pole-vaulting on mere morals- 'strong foundations.' Too dangerous, success may run thin There are no listeners, no readers, until the sweat Has gallantly exhausted itself. Reflected against an honest screen Distracted by self, persuaded to leave On the verge, tug of dreams, tug of new words Staying on, leaving reflections bereaved. But why? With no takers, no one who can Read the thoughts in words that you deemed special. No one can ...

My garden has been turned into a bleached landscape. Blanched green, as if an effect had been added digitally. Overwhelming and pungent, the green clouts itself, Billowing against the howling gale, and reaching out to more green. Muting all other colors, which drop to their deaths, Without complaint. Only the green survives, Clinging like a weather-resistant cloth to wood and metal. Some weeping, some chuckling, some creeping  Into the limelight. Some withering, some bowing, With a rain-dew touch that sets them all a-glowing. I hear whispering, and wailing, as well as pining  And complaining. The harsh wind carries all these secrets On the brass strings of its precious instrument. No other Business for today. It's green's day to shine.