IT’S ALL STARTED WHEN

 

Poetry killed the poet.

The poet loved poetry.

The poet’s son was watching it

and wrote a poem.

The poem which the poet’s son wrote was missing one day.

The poet’s son suspected poetry must have hidden it.

How do you find the poem?

The poet’s son went to poetry and asked where the poem was.

Poetry was silent.

Next moment, poetry tried to kill the poet’s son also.

But the poet’s son caught poetry just before

and killed the poetry.

That was the story how poetry was lost long ago.

It’s all started when poetry killed the poet.

EPIC

 

Once upon a time,

Poetry man painted rhythm. Rollin’ and tumblin’ picture in a frame. Stormy weather. Sing sing sing. Lullaby of birdland,  the galaxy song   beyond the blue horizon. Don't think twice, it's all right. Everything flows. Row row row.     River man. Many rivers to cross. The magic number  sittin’ on the dock of the bay somewhere down the crazy river, muddy water. Straighten it out, master builder. Conception by the light of the silvery moon. Take me to the river. Ring ring ring.      Starman. Scenario  standing on the corner Plum street. She’s out there somewhere on the sunny side of the street. Don't get around much anymore. Constellation folks who live on the hill running up that hill. Misty mountain. On the road again. Don’t get me wrong,  Yellow. Speak no evil,  deep purple. Draw the line,  Blue in green, Footprints dancing barefoot praise you from a distance. The man with a child in his eyes. Remedy. Memories are made of this golden ring. On and on, the circle game changes. Arthur’s theme swinging on a star, bridge over a troubled water, moving over the rainbow. Take this waltz. Message in a bottle. ——————————————— (Collage of song titles)

Calling

 

Here comes the rain again.

Do you really want to hurt me?

I can’t tell you why.

That’s the way everybody wants to rule the world.

What a wonderful world.

Fly me to the moon.

Grandfather’s clock 

moving this masquerade time after time 

without you.

I can’t go for that Tequila Sunrise.

Fragile night birds drive carnival long long time.

Take my breath away.

Shout,  Luka.

Every breath you take.

Sweet dreams are made of this fantasy.

Wonderful tonight.

Love me tender,  true dreams.

The rose.

Just the way you are.

Hallelujah.

Honesty …..  wait for me.

You are the sunshine.

Feelings …..  stand by me.

The tide is high.

Moon river

You’ve got a friend close to you.

When you wish upon a star,

imagine the sound of silence,

unchained melody 

calling you.

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(Collage : Song titles——from the book of repertoire)

On Board

 

“Now your turn.”

The geometric pattern

sprung from the bottom of one’s memory.

Its presence is walking out without walking

wearing the air.

By the way don’t forget to keep the corner.

A world without expression.

Fragile as glass.

School of whirlpools flowing.

There is something to remember here.

Why is it stuck?

This horse is my horse.

Then the change in the melody I felt.

“Where are you playing tonight?”

“At the Oxygen 

 just around the corner.

In a secret corner of my heart

and of your heart.

See you there.”

Which universe are you wandering around.

The view from the outside coincides with the view from the inside.

It was shining through the tunnel like a lighthouse in ocean.

A lot of things were remembered.

Recognizing the role of the rock

it was built by so called special stones

and kept its own secret within.

And the Bishop went for a walk diagonally.

Of course.

The stone will revive.

The rock will survive.

Quietly coming from behind 

is the familiar Knight.

and it’s about to jump over.

This is a world where expressions and dignity appear.

Synonyms on board.

The Sign

It happened twice          because of the sign

in front of the rose garden       there it was there it is

 

started with a couple of sentences      even if they weren’t remembered

written in the language           you have heard before

or have you    

when you wiggled         they giggled

and followed the traces of a deer

 

the grasshopper     wither on the vine

beneath your fingertips       there always is a wormhole

between the world and me         between the word and me

they reconcile

the apprentice had completed the forest         with its own reflection

when you winked      it linked

and followed the traces of a deer