Trees have turned their green leaves inside-out
to show a whitish side, and mourning doves
call from afar--a haunting, lonely cry--
foretelling of the rain that's soon to come.
All thirsty plants cup up expectant leaves,
and every dusty blade of grass awaits
the gift of nature's serenade, the rain,
reviving melody of life renewed.
Welcome is the music of summer rain:
staccato notes are tapping out the beat
as timpani of thunder rolls on high,
lightning batons direct this symphony.
The warm rain caresses lilac blooms
releasing perfume on the evening breeze.
Listen to the concert of summer rain,
gentle on the land and on those who dream.
Please Steal These Beanie Babies From The Rear Window.
My Car Passed The Emissions Test. My Mouth Didn't.
I Use My Mirrors To See Me, Not You!
When I'm On The Phone You Cease To Exist.
Step Right Up! See The "Amazing Commuting Woman"!
She Eats, She Drinks, She Smokes, She Talks On The Phone.
She Even Puts On Make-Up. All At An Incredible 100 MPH!
And On The 8th Day, Man Created Automobiles.
God Said: "You People Are Driving Me Crazy!"
Never Ask A Woman Her Age. Just Read Her Vanity Plate.
Does My Tie Go With This SUV?
My Path In Life Is Leased.
Bad Drivers Aren't Born. They Practice Every Day.
My Highly Sophisticated, On-Board Navigation System Tells Me I'M LOST!
Red Means Stop. Green Means Go. Yellow Means FLOOR IT!
Suburban Evolution: Survivial Of The Trendiest
It's So Crowded & Noisey & Expensive In The Suburbs.
Remind Me Why I Moved Here In The First Place.
People Don't Cause Accidents, Cell Phones Do.
Practice Random Acts Of Anti-Terrorism.
So Many Cars, So Little Courtesy.
I'm Already Paying Through The Nose. I Can Pick It Anytime I Want!
Traffic Jam Is So Negative. Call It A Collective Driving Experience.
I Moved to the Suburbs to Get Away From
Gangbangers But Then a Coyote Ate My Poodle.
As you sleep the full moon
shining through slats of the blind
dresses you in stripes.
I reach over, grasp your hand,
waiting for the moon to draw us
into enchanted travel.
As evening nears, the sky is almost white,
and stark against its light there stand the trees,
black guardians, still, beside the growing night.
At noon they stood quite brown, beneath the winter freeze,
with green moss spread like dripping sap or dew
passionless against each sturdy base. I see the few
beyond my window motionless, as though in awe
and reverence before the coming of a thaw.
The night is almost here. The trees, like scrawls of charcoal drawn,
thrust up toward heaven, where white meets black,
and I have a sense of ages past and gone,
like runners pacing round a cinder track.
So it is with age. The early years are yellow, green, and brown,
with sunlight casting warmth and light
as though it were a gallant cloak,
and later, as though enraptured by the starkness
of the tall black oak,
the gamboling shadows faint and fade
upon the stillness of the ground.
Then we are left alone with black and white.
The vibrant arc of merriment is gone and done,
and, silhouetted from within, through an awestruck hour
before a winter night,
we count our sins and blessings one by one.
Contemplation is a medium to transmigrate me from
conscious to the subconscious state of mind.
My half-closed eyes in a meditative stance
looking through the distant spaces of emptiness
trespassing into the far far away
outer edges of time,
the timeless abodes of Gods.
Hidden memories from the
inner core of the subconscious state
are projecting on the mind screen
the bygone life of my
childhood, youth and middle age.
At the outer edges of time
in the distant spaces of emptiness
I had the glimpses of Shiva
in the contemplative stance
sitting with crossed legs
and half-closed eyes
looking into himself.
What was Shiva contemplating?
He might have glanced at this mortal
traversing the outskirts of Heaven.
Shiva, the Lord of "Laya," the last of the
tri-part creation--
dealing with the demise of the universal creation.
Probably he is checking out
the strayed soul of mine.
Shiva is Bhola Shankar--ever compassionate God
I pray thee.
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