Troubadour

 

I have sung

     Like a troubadour

In the Towns square

     Of my own

Being.

 

It is so

     Dark in here.

It is depressing.

 

The fog rises,

     And falls

Like a simple

     Wave.

 

And the sun,

     Where is it?

Light from

     A lighthouse

Penetrating

     The fog?

 

Love

     Is death.

Love

     Is life.

 

I have sung

     Like a troubadour

In the Town square

     Of my own

Being.

 

Pain is.

     Love is.

The heart’s bowstring

     Tightly wrung.

It explodes

     Like a geyser.

 

Sorrow.

Joy.

Life.

 

I have sung

     Like a troubadour

In the Town square

     Of my own

Being.

 

For my love

     Is a distant

Star

     Grappled

With

     Like

A throbbing

     Vein.

 

In the heart.

 

 

 

Emotions

 

I am torn apart like a lion

tears apart his prey.

I am drowning in a flood

of powerful emotions. O God, save me

from this scourge, save me from the flagellations

of love. Save me from the hard taskmaster.

Save me from the unending cry from the depths.

O God, help me put the bit to my emotions,

lest I drown in this raging flood, and my sun,

now a vagrant on the narrowing river,

sets ere it has danced in the cool Autumn of the Western skies.

 

 

 

Emotions (II)

 

O love is an unforgiving taskmaster.

O love is a slave driver that does not know

when to stop. O love is the bully that punches

the hapless little kid in the face until he is sore,

bleeding and crying. O love is a ship sinking

at sea without a single lifeboat. O love is a meat grinder

that grinds away at the vital parts. O love is madness,

when madness is walking on a bed of fiery six-inch nails.

O love is winter with no provision for the homeless bum

on the streets. O love is like deep sorrow, when deep sorrow

is the only clothing on one’s back in the eye of a severe winter.

O love is a long, hard day, a long, hard day that grinds mercilessly on.

Curse it, love it, but love is no warm blanket, when the beloved

is fleeing the heartland of the bleeding heart. Curse it, love it,

but love will scourge and scourge until it has run its wasting course.

 

 

 

When Love is a Raw Country

 

I have wandered, wandered on the highways of desolation and loneliness.

I have cried my emotions raw until my heart is bleeding like a fish

  tossing out his life on the banks of a desolate island.

I have wandered into lonely places and forgotten boxes,

  dreary buildings assaulting the skyline of a deserted city.

I have thrashed and tossed in my sleep and wrestled with a thousand

  demons.

I have erupted out of the deep blue sea gasping for air, and seen nothing

  but the face of a dreary sky on the weeping face of the deep blue sea.

I have waited for the cargo to come in until the port is deserted

  & empty of all life. I was at the waterside when the fishermen left

in the belly of the night for the high seas, and was still there, when

they returned with their canoes laden with the loot of the sea.

I am a palm tree shed of all life standing at a spot at the waterside

  where the river never comes in anymore, where the water crabs

never visit anymore, where the land crabs carry their burdens

  like old men fleeing a plague-ridden city. My head is full of water;

it is a coconut that bounces from hilltop to hilltop. And my eyes

  have seen better years, they are sad with the grayness

of a weeping sea. O God, my heart bursts on the banks of this desolate

waterside. Help, help, help, that I may retrace my way from the mourning sea.

Life is too much to spend on the waterside all day long, all night long,

   like a colony of crabs, marching here and marching there,

but marching nowhere all day long. O God, O God! marching nowhere all day long.

 

 

 

The Birds have Gone Away

 

The birds are not chirping in the trees

Anymore. They used to chirp in the trees

Beside my window, all day long, all night long.

They used to sing, sing, and never sleep.

The birds used to sing, sing, all day long, all night long.

They used to sing, sing, and never sleep.

But the birds sing no more in the trees beside

My window. & the trees are now like a deserted land,

No a cemetery. Not even the cheer of spring

Will bring back the birds. Not even the cheer

Of the early morning sun will bring back the birds.

The birds have gone away, all victims of a ferocious sorrow.