Welcome to the Gryphon's Nest!
The gryphon lined it's nest with such
As none will see again
But treasured most the deepfelt words
Sung from the hearts of men
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Things we Own
It's all on loan
they say,
the land, the wind, the sky
Things we own can be taken away
the house, the boat, our lives....
Over ten years - he's been gone
but he was hers for a time
never something she could own
yet part of her heart,
her soul & her mind.
She was there the night
he died
and too when her son was born
a trade it's believed
yet neither, guaranteed
nor is the earth, the moon, or the stars
We have nothing to fear
and nothing to gain
except -that which is time;
For now we have it,then it's gone
& we're left with the question-why?
Reflections
Years pass,
memories fade
and only a ghost of the past remains,
Errant moments,
teaze the mind
when last it was she watched him die.
Half grown,
and his only child
left with the guilt for being so wild,
Rebel nature
soft inside,
alone in the world for the very first time.
Dreams fade
reality burns,
somewhere she failed to use what she learned
Struggles build
character they say
The fight to survive is the price she must pay.
Time mellows
the heart and the mind
and the rebel is calmed by her gentler side
A child is born
A new life to love,
yet she longs to share this with he who's above.
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Autumn Flowers (A Still Life)
I hate the autumn flower
as it rises from its bed
and stretches petaled essence
into oblivion.
I, myself, have railed
against the autumn light and
raised my fists against the
coming canopy of night,
to no avail.
And yet the autumn flower
with no axe to grind,
finds glory when it fails.
Autumn flowers flutter
with the breeze
and catch the fading sun
as if to wave goodbye
to longevity.
And this they do
without defiance
or thought of enmity.
Don't autumn flowers know
their impending doom
has been sealed, when
first the north wind blows?
Probably not; and I must despise
them all the more, for
without purpose, their passive
resistance lacks the passion it implies.
No fire in their souls, say I,
no purpose in their death,
no meaning to their struggle,
and when the beggars die
I won't mourn their loss of power,
for they do not mourn themselves.
Then, again, I might be overstating,
'cause. . ., of course, they're only flowers.
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**This work is copyrighted by Amazon Ace
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AMSTERDAM
The Dam Square
The square nearest to the Central Station
The square that one can reach
The place to sit and stare
Also to make plans maybe.
Stepping out of the station
The canal on the right
The trams and Damrak in front
On the Damrak to Dam Square.
What was a european plaza?
Could a plaza be
What the Dam square was trying to be?
The plaza stretching out
In front of the benches.
Stone blocks forming quarter circles.
The pigeons.
The many, many pigeons.
Was the plaza theirs?
Did one need an invitation to enter it?
The little girl in the pram
As mummy pointed out to her
Pigeon on mummys shoulder.
The clapping of little hands
As the pigeon flew away.
A group of people talking.
Pigeon sitting on a womans head.
The grey pigeons.
The grey paving blocks.
The little girl from Suriname
Sitting on bench
Watching the plaza with her mother.
Santaclaus, walking around
Ringing bell in one hand
Handouts in another.
The puppet show.
The Konig Palais.
The circular window of Madame Tussaud scenarama
The people looking out and down onto the plaza.
The two guards on either side of the window
The make-believe guards
Watching a summer day on the Dam.
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**This work is copyrighted by Kiran Keswani
(suresh@shiva.uni-flensburg.de).
Reproduction is prohibited without express permission of the author**
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