Wanting Execution

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.

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Still

A landscape of feathers The smoothest natural canvas, For Nature's painter- Alighting while parading its beauty Before retreating Into a well-worn easel. Soot-black, rust-grey, brown like tinsel, Folding up and pulling down the covers Over grace, beauty and space, Compounded with distance, Rendering known unknowns, beautiful art. Now mingled with unknown knowns, Streaks of color paint the marauded canvas Differently. Camouflage seems eminent, Unimportance, inadvertent. The marvels Of the aerial world, beget stupor as They transform into the pedestrian In the realm which is terrestrial. The miracle of flight now a bane, As for food they must forage With feet, not fly with feathers. I don't want to startle them. It is silence that beckons them to the ground. Startlement stirs them upwards, into the skies, Simpering, whimpering, not soaring and diving- Trespassers on a land where they are weak, Vulnerable- they know they can't win. Aviation is a weapon futile against...

The Tree Says 'Hi'

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Clandestine

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The Happy Wanderer

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