Poetry for me is a way of living, it comes out of nowhere and I have to write it down. How I write, what I write, I decide. I am not asking you to be judgemental. I am gifted with the ability to see beyond the obvious.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
shifting with the winds
with utmost care he rubbed the tarnished trophy and summoned the ghosts. he never expected to find his own mother in that mist of shadows- shifting with the wind which came out of nowhere. he reached out, shaking as he silently cried, to embrace that ghost, but he found no flesh nor blood nor bone, ' closing his eyes he swam back in time and reached home in his mind, he saw his mother- thinking how she once she gathered her purse, looked around, but did not see him. she sobbed and cried, where are you, my son?
"son and mother, lost from each other, unaware who is the ghost, both silently crying into that trophy"