The first breath in the morning,
how that smile
which so seemed
to a broken eye.
Myself, and the water above my head
singing of the only song
a rainfall monsoon spread to india today.
A girl was seen rushing up the street
soaking her dress,
and i thought
dragged beneath the sea comb of the beach
my hair dragged and rippled up in knots
you were my first love
and now her eyes stare into mine
tossed inside the waves of rain
“he is gone,
and a jasmine blossom
now drowns in the river”.
Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry
A little girl, like the bending tree
Whose only pleasure lies in watching trees
And who only finds the god-soul in the climbing of the trees
(mine, hers, and what of hers that once was)
Whose play things but the twigs and the leaves and trees
And the jeweled sun, that plays upon her by the hours
Wind shaking her knees,
you found her crouching on a toadstool by the tree-ditch
and that is all bark bone and mud and moss
you picked me up and shook me
and tasted the question “who are you?”
all I said was “Tree, Tree” not tasting anything remotely sweet.
He said “Tara”. Tara, for Tree.
I am Tara, He says, now Tara.
Oh, how long since I have counted, I think? The day goes on much further
without knowing how to count. But I remeber lessons…
I count on my fingers and again. Fourteen. I do not know how to make
three more quarters,
so I do not.
Little girl, who only finds the God-soul finds love in trees
and takes home with her
of dark leather and metal
Love and the jewled memento of the sun
that plays apon the trees
that I see from the glass window,
(and what a
I fog up it’s mirror, and
when I finish my gazing, with it’s white shining dazing
he calls down for his inferior.
Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry