You can always go far, but come September, you will return*

You can go far, faraway from me,
But come September, you will return,
That i know, if not do you return,
That month, the next month will
I catch you, right beside that river,
She is not alien to me, like you,
Her me knows, me knows for years,
Through your eyes, She every day comes,
To my heart, where me keeps you,

You keep me too, ain't so bro?
Now that you are faraway, so,

You can go far, faraway from me,
But like sailors, we will meet, in the Sea,

Then , in waters we will play,
Or on the beach, volleyball if so you wish,

You can go always far,
But not more than one millimetre,
From me, from us, OUR Family.

(*Note : the photograph attached is Taken by me, from a friend's collection of photography, with whom I had spent many many happy hours together, at R.K.M.R.C. Narendrapur, Kolkata,
Shri/Mr. Sibasis Das. )

With candles burning, *

With candles burning,
Molten wax by the sides of them,
Coming down , hot, liquid soft,
And like a piece of eternal art,
Holding You, getting ready
For a dance, before wearing night cap,

How one finds, same carvings ,
Same lines, running same,
Even after so many galaxies apart
As we have made a decide,
To hold us, our tides,

So that we can always remain
That 'little distance away',
For us to "stroll", in the air,
ethereal as we truly are,

But unwittingly, see,
How on canvas of the sky,
We meet, greet, dance with joy,
Finding our days and knights.

(*Note: loosely based on a painting, as attached. Courtesy: Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Come love, Selene,*

O You, the Serene,
Selene,
Whence Thou doth come
With rounded face,
Over the mounds,
Floating over my city's architecture,
Like my love's face,
How i think of snow,
Little flakes,
Falling over me,
Painting me,
Beautifully,

O Thou Art
Not just a satellite,
Of our planet,
Thou hath remained,
Even after many years so
Our day of wedding,
Honey dripping
From thy lips,

And me,
Even not being able
To kiss Thou,
Can feel thy kiss
Silvery, like a tune nocturne,
C, Chopin as
Had composed
So heartily,

O whence Thou i see,
Over the hills and mounds,
Floating, carelessly,

How I think of a poem
Once i read on your face,
Our reaching a country side,
And stillness of Thy romance
Holding everything stilled,
Yet music how within the soul and heart
Cascade like flowed, over pebbles how
Cool waters flowed and danced,

And more i get into you, Your beauty,
Filling me, yet leaving space enough
Not fulfilled, to hold more of Thy purity.

(*Note: loosely based, on a photographic scene, )

By the 'scented Beach', finding Isabel, *

Whence holidaying by the 'scented beach'
Taking a recluse, for us, getting more into our cove,
you i find isabel mine,
Smiling, dancing, giggling ,
Lavender on thy shoulders,
Whitish pink, intoxicating,
How oft i think, Frances yours,
Will we be, forever thus(?)
Will, we be, this way our leisure pass,

But then, I look at You,
You standing by the shore,
Where waves of waters, come and go,
Hitting sands, rocks some, and kissing feet Thine,
Making You my light, lightened Heart,
Living by Bless and bliss, so entwined,
with you, my love, my Truth, my peace, my eyes,

Had i been , then, forever yours?
Had you been, then, forever mine?

I ask those foams, the surf,
As they gather so near your feet,
And You to that direction,
Where the Sun, is waking ,looking, with ease,

I just look forgetting me,
Thinking "la radice", our origin,
Our Quest, Our Search never ending,

I, then, replicate , a character, fictional,
Which i with much care and grit,
On paper, had writ, burning me, twice,
You, preserving thrice,

O how many happy hours, have i
Spent, eyes getting blurred, by tears,
For Thou, my maid,

Now , that , a friend mine,
Also has found us,
Our Love story,
(Is it touching US?)
And painted LOVE,
By the sea,

How Canst one not sing,
Again, that story, which only for You,
I with much pains once for our beautiful world , did bring.

(*Note: upon a painting, done with much Love, by Richard Johnson, courtesy: Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni.

The phrase " scented Beach" was used by Robert Browning in his poem "Meeting at Night", which was a companion poem to "Parting in the morning". Both the poems, were written with  Elizabeth Barrett Browning, being kept in mind, by Robert Browning, as it is found in papers /research works done on Browning Couple and their works.)

Send (me not )off*

Send me , not off,
Love, Mon amour,
Whence Thou hath come to my door
You angel , the Love Profound,
Noiseless, without noise or sound,

Send me, not off,
If Thou hath holden me,
In thy Bosom soft,
And kept me there hooked,
In thy breast, forever so booked,

Send me, not off,
If Thou hath kissed me soft,
Painted like that scene,
At the railway station,as Thou bring,

Not to the wars, send me, you,
Angel, white, my morning's dew,
Kiss me not to bid adieu,
O la amore, my Soul, my Beau,

Don't want to die, love, young,
Butchered by bullets, just for a song!

Instead, come, Angel, sweet , morning's mist,
Kiss me, right there, kiss on my cheeks,

And wave me, to return to Thou,
With billet doux more, Mon dio, for You.

(*Note: upon a painting, done with a lot of pains of sweet love, deep, by Furst Jozsef, courtesy : Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni.

"Send off " , is an antiwar poem , written long ago by Wilfred Owen, a soldier poet, who along with few other soldier-poets, started 'Antiwar poetry', describing in poetic fervour, the vagaries of Wars and Battles. The title is used , adapted, modified, to carry the anti-war feel, with a bit of dash of Love.
This poem should also be considered as a tribute to Owen.)

Like taking the streetcar down the city road magical*

Almost like a flick, whence one appears seized
By the moment of seeing, a canvas meticulous, spread wide ,
All over the Sky, not knowing whether,
The feather of Love where got flowing,
Catching the sweet breeze of the spring summer day,

One be comes fully blown,
Out pouring of words thence,
Comes spontaneous,
Like fingers running relentless,
Typing on and on, without pains,
Frenzied poetic a State, so Blessed
By Thine, Venus, perhaps , Thou hath
Somehow come, upon my fingers, like a balm,

Otherwise, how is it possible,
i , watch the scene, an Oriental form,
Done by Cao, so heartful, so young,
Pushing me, by Art Thine,
To find the ways of the road, not labyrinthine,
But wavy, running down, from one end to another,

O Venus, how Thou hath put my heart
Into my fingers!

How i see, magical, a street car,
(Was it named Desire?)
Going down, like a memory lane,
So filled with magical wand, wonderous,
As if i have gone down the rabbit hole,
And arrived to a different World , Another,

(Just like that feather white, that came dropping onto me once)

O Venus, You must have worked on
That artist Oriental, doing intricate weaving,
By simply brushing paints and colors not stopping,

Through that road , right at the heart of the city,
Glowing by lights, lamps, shades of buildings ,
How riding almost just behind,
That street car,
(Was it named Desire?)
I my childhood beautifully find.

(*Note: upon a painting done with meticulous perfection, by Cao Young, courtesy : Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Ode to the 'land we love'*

The land we love is
What we sing, Mother mine,
The land by thy river,
Where growst trees tall,
And bushes , myrtles, tender,
That land fertile, mother, by thy bless,
Is what we live for, we try to trace,
In every works, we do,
Mother, to that land we pay,
Our obeiscence, our truest selves,

where flows thy waters, eternal, from mountain tops,
Running, flowing, murmuring, without cease,without stop,
For  that land we toil the hardest,
Mother, all by thy bless.

(*Note: upon a painting based, titled "Land we love" done with subtle colorplay, by Alan Fetterman, courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover, Iulia Gherghei, )

Standing on the rocks by the waters*

Standing on the boulders, rocks,
By the sea, as Thou i see,
Slowly going to meet, the horizon where
Hath drawn the thin red line, reddened blue, orangy,  a panoramic end, in the air,
How i remain struck, wonderous thy shape,
The shooting star, spraying thy limitless energy,
Thy light , thy halo, drenching the waters, and also me, standing on the rocks, motionless,
Feeling every bit of Thy golden scatter, thy burning gaseous state of Matter,
Thy non matter too, purely a Wave, through ether, harmonious, coming to me,.making me porous, seeing through,
Inside out, out side in, in thy stillness, never tiring,

I kneel before thy halogenic round,
Eyes how can i keep open, thy Light, like glowing ,
A ball like from which we all get blessed,

So i keep eyes closed, kneel before Thee,
As Thou keep coming back to the horizon,
The thin red line, the apparent limit, of the limitless sea, slowly dropping, inch by inch,
Dipping down, with laze enough, to put me into Your furnace, with succulent ease,

As if Thou know it True, none can Challenge Thee, thy Beauty Eternal,
As I kneel, amazed, seeing Thou, thy Fire,
As I keep my head down, emblazed.

(*Note: the picture/photograph attached is Taken by me, out of which poesy e~merged)

All Be Cause of You

All Be Cause of You*

It's All Be Cause of You,
Lord, that i sing, I do,
A re~view, my works, my words,
My poesy, my flow,
Rivery me, to Thou , i offer,
O The Lord, my eternal Coffer,

It's all Be. cause of You,
Lord, am i alive, I survive,
Through the Dust and the Heat,
My roads untrodden, my poetic feet,
My ember, my flicker,
Rivery me, to Thou, i offer,
O The Lord, my eternal Coffer.

 (*Note: a Prayer, this poem is devoted to as my offering small to Lord Buddha, whose one sitting posture, as a small Gift, i , got, from a friend mine, who lives faraway in the hills, Shri/Mr. N.Bhutia.)

A Prayer to Venus *

Seeing Thou,
Venus, lying with ease,
Consummate, all by Thyself,
Oblivious,unfazed, unapologetic,
On the broad canvas such,
Eyes closed, meditative,
With greenery above and below,
Thine, finding in Thy own Self, the Divine,
You art, become , such a painting,
As old as early days of the sixteenth century,
Archived , preserved, that way,
O You, The Sleeping Venushas,
How my travels to You, thus pass,

You hath Holden true,
The picture of eternity and Peace,
In your lovely sleep, as if kept freezed,
Beyond the World of ours, mortals,
With nothing to hold to,
Other than lust and greed,

How Thou sleep off,
Fully ignorant of the gazers
Of Thy naked Truth,
Thy Innocence,

O GODDESS of my Worship,
Whence by thy grace
i can find Thee,
Dropping on my pages and leaves
Of useless scribbles and scribblings,
Keep me close,
O You The Mighty Heart,
Olympia,
Keep me asleep too,
In thy Womb of Poetry and Love,
Thy paintings of Peace, like a dove,

Keep me blessed, so,
I leave not my works behind,
My passion , not at all , at rest,
Now that i , like a child, feel thy Beauteous Innocence,
Right in my writes , as if blessed,

Keep me synced, energised,
In sleep, keep me ignited by thy light,
Thy Truth,
So that, i can keep worshiping,
You, only You,

Leaving no Titian,
As Giorgione had to,
To complete the rest
Of the painting,
The landscape, the skies,

O Venus,
By thy bless,
Keep me away
From roads and streets
Filled with cries of hardened humans,
Who have forgotten why
We are here, why,
So many people just uselessly die,

O Venus,
Keep me half awake,
So that i can, by thy bless, take,
Into my little heart,
Thy Beauty, Thy Grace.

(*Note: the picture attached is a painting, taken by me from the archival collection of Paintings classical. This particular painting Depicts GODDESS Venus, lying on a grassland, asleep, oblivious of the viewers' gaze . Italian Painter and artist of a kind, Giorgione undertook the work mammoth of painting The GODDESS Venus, known as" The Sleeping Venushas" in early sixteenth Century, but, he couldn't complete the painting.
His student, Titian, as it is learnt completed the canvas, by drawing the landscape and the hills, mounds, houses, sky, trees etc.
The greenery as symbolized by the Tree, underneath which the Goddess Venus is found to be sleeping, acts as a Protective Covering. The painting can be found in original, at Gemaldegalerie, Dresden.)

Colored glass tubes, *

Life, is
Just like colored glass tubes,
You them put,
Beside the window,
As they become
More colorful,
By the light of the day,
Decorating me and also You.

(*Note: the photo attached was taken by me,)

Songs and lyrics, *

Once climbing up
The chamber, upper,
Took to this,
Cabin of us, bliss,
Photos of Musicians and their lyrics,
How hung leading all the way
From the ground floor
To the upper storey,

There we sat, close, knit,
Neat were ours papers white,
You sang a song
And I wrote another, lyric,

Once climbing up,
The stairs, with photos of Music
All the way, from the ground floor
To that cabin, upper storey,

We gathered our songs,
We met us, proper, for which
We both so poetically longed,

Heard so many songs,
You breaking out, singing
S.D. and His Son,
I thinking of Che, Marx and Copernicus,
Galileo too,
Tagore and Einstein, came like New,

O that refuge of us,
Where we thought of first
Blooming our souls like flowers.

(*Note: the photograph attached was taken by me, once as I and some of my friends and family went to a place, wonderous, getting together, as it was)

Holidaying*

Some holidays are so filled with Peace,
That you take a seat, quiet, opposite of me,
As both of us, on cane chairs, recline, relax,
Talks we don't make, only we hear each other,
Our beating hearts, as they spake,
And chirps of birds we get too, coming to us,

We don't talk, for our talks we keep aside,
Driven by the serene green, we just listen us,
Trying to make out, what is that that creates
Everything , this sprawling green, this air, this earth,
We sit quiet looking at us, holding the birth
Of our Love , much like our origin, from where
We go out , spreading, flowering, catching morn's air.

(*Note: the photograph attached was taken by me, once, while holidaying)

There whence Thou pose, poised so, *

Whence i find Thou,
Indian woman, symbolic
Epitome of Love, motherly, sisterly too,
Graceful, benign, soft,
A mere Model(?)
Nay,
Shashikant Dhotre
Must not have toiled
Burning his day's eyes
And midnight oil
To recreate Thou,
Art, the Eternal,
Breaking all barriers
Of small times,
Little rooms,

Much like
The Urn that
A great poet,
Western,
Evoked and captured,
Calling that
Grecian,

O how, you,
Dhatre, the Artist
Recreate Divinity thus,

Who hath blessed Thou
And Thine pencils and brushes ,
To make such a poetic re~view
Of that Ode, so Keatsean,

Art, Thou canst never go wrong,
For all beauties become in You
The True, The Bliss, The Eternal,
The Defiance of small little things.

(*Note : the painting, which appears very very Real, is actually a great profiling work, on human figures, done by An Indian Master of Art and Painting, Shri/Mr. Shashikant Dhotre.

In "Ode on a Grecian Urn" , John Keats presented his idea of Truth, Beauty and Eternality of Art in a prolific poesy , if which we are all aware.
This poem/scribble corelates art and poesy and Beauty and Truth.)

Porta Alba, as if, *

There, there, how You i find,
Right at that alley,
Our stay, brief,
You Isabel, i,
And Cicero,
And Donya,

How ,wonderful had that life been!
You, me, all in One Big Wide Screen,
Loving us, our Quest, our findings matchin'

Your rethinking , of changing a bit,
Your style, your dresses, your happy happy faces,
Your love for your brother, Cicero,
And for Donya, neopolitan so,

Pizzeria , small and big ovens,
Lain side by side, smelling wheatish,
Maize , corns,
All coming to us,

And Samir,
He was there too,
A bit apart true,
But in his looking at
You,

And me,
Geosyncing all,

The Statue of Dante Alighieri,
Right there, at the circle,
In the middle,
As if standing like His Epic,
Guarding Beauty Thine,
Mine, Cicero's ,Donya's,
All, who came there,
Early morns,
To sit on the benches,
By those piccolos,

Ain't it lovely
Finding so much of You,
Coming back to me,
Through painted dreams,
Dream like reverie,
Drenching me,
Joie de vivre,
Sweet, embracing us,

O how i wander
By thy dreams,
Of my created Girl,
My writes,

How in painted forms,
Thou make a rerun.

(*Note: upon a painting , under the aegis of a series titled "Happy Art", courtesy : Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni; 

" la radice" is actually , a short novella written By Me, on varied things , 

#noadvertthis)

Ode To Tagore

If Thou hath not been here,
O The God of Thy Writes,
If Thou hath not us brought
Thy immense treasure, never ending,
Songs, scribbles, inked botches,
Thy plays, playlets, charades,
Thy poems, thy essays, thy Vast,

Sometimes wonder,i,
Where We had been
How i have survived,
With so much of horrendous things
Happening, non poetic,
Electrocuted nights,
Bloody swords red upto hilts,
Wrongs worn over our small chests
With so much of boast and false pride,

Where would i myself hide,

O Thou, the Greatest of All Bards,
By measure, by length, by breadth
How in You, oft i just breathe,

Liberating me, to the skies and the seas,
By Thou, thy works, thy wonders, thy Poetry,

Hath not You left for us, such eternal life,
Where i have bowed, where have i dyed, Immortal Life, Thou , the God of all writes,
Philos, Eros, Agape, all rolled into You,
Like drops of dews, on leaves Thine,
Forever , like nascent dreams, on shine,

Hath not Thou left, such an indelible ink,
Upon me, O The Lord, Where would have I,
After being filled with Thy love to the brink,
Overflowed, drowned, drenched, bowed.

A spring summer afternoon *

Tea, being our favourite liquor,
Her and mine, oft, at spring summer afternoons
Will i find her, lavish , sprawling , like a canvas,
Wearing a hat, bonnet, to save her beauteous face,
From tans, and also to keep in order,
Her flowing cascading hair,
Sitting on a chair,
In our garden,
Holding her cup ,
Of tea, aromatic,
Darjeeling,

But perhaps
Being called by some,
Her children,
(And mine too, as i tend to Imagine,
So love laden, ),
Looking a way,

And her face,
Like a side profile,
In Innocence wrapped
And painted,
(Like a Victorine,
Perhaps,
Whom once Giorgione
Painted as Dresden Venus,
Beauty Perfect,
Symmetrical, such, )
Before my eyes
How e~merge,

And i, the forever rivery waters,
Flowing flowing, not stopping,
Get into ,again, finding Her,
In the skies of ours,
So limitlessly Vast,

She appears like Angelica true,
In her works and her leisure too,
With her cup of tea,
Bonneted thus,
spring summer afternoons
Through her as gently pass,

I just look at her,
Till i feel, I am no longer in me,
Till i feel, I have gotten to the Lea,
Of our wonderous life, our merriment,
Our never ending poesy, paintings and
Few thousand years of Peaceful Solitude.

(*Note: upon a painting , done by Angelica Privalihin, courtesy: Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Come la amore, come to the Bar,*

Come, la amore,
Isabel mine,
Now that the eve has dropped
Upon us, so quite, so soft,
And now that i can see,
You art there,
Catching the song,
The tune of our Love, long,
Come, Isabel, such an eve,
So musical, so romantic,
Like Your red red lips,
Calmed, be us,
You in white dancing for us,

I would perhaps,
Would just be somewhere near,
The Guitarist whence hath plucked the string, fair,
Stringed we Canst stop not, Canst sing not,

Cause Thou hath to me , how hath brought,
Poesy, paints, blossoms, wrought
In our Deepest love, emblematic,
Our whitest Truth, so, so poetic,

Come , Mon dio, come like that flicker of Hope,
Whence You hath so originally widened our scope,
To see, to feel, every tune that spread,
Through the ether, ethereal we ,have by toils bred,

Canst you not hear the song
That Guitarist who had been strumming for long,
The song like an Universal One,
Filled with only our Love so entwined,

Come, Isabel, shake a leg,
Come, diva, make for me a peg,
A small one, filled with redness,
Straight, from your red pout, blessed,
By Mother Thine, who hath reared you with care,
Come, Isabel, don't you be scared,
For I am, here, only to adore you,
For I am, here, to be your beau.

(*Note: upon a painting, loosely based, done by a Great Painter humanitarian such, Richard S. Johnson, courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni, Alex Artista, from 'Happy Art Series'.)

Ode to a glowing ball

Many years since today,
Found a ball, glowing kind,
It was a gift,
From a childhood bud,
Who was tall and lanky,
That point of time,
That bud was in the states
Of Affairs , caught up with works,
But as he gave me that ball,
I clicked it,
So that i never forget ever that ball
And the gift,
A Glowing Ball,
Kind,

Now that i look at that
Ball,
How I find U n me,
There in the photo
So clicked
By me,

Many many years ago,
And to that friendship,
See, on such a Holiday,
Earthy, how i bow. (*Note: the pic attached is Really a Glowing Ball , which was Given to me, by a friend mine, my childhood buddy,
Some memories just Stay, they just linger. The ball can glow once it hits any hard surface. One just clicked the photo after putting the ball on the floor, keeping it still, as the colors emerged)

O, those days!*

O those days!
How Canst one forgets,
Pray,
Those days of our going to hills,
Praying at the hall, before the sun rises,
After sun sets,

O those days!
How Canst one forgets,
Pray,
Those days of camaraderie and Joys
Our becoming children, filled
With fun , laughter and joined hands,

O those days!
How Canst one forgets,
Pray,
Wintry morns coming to our beds,
Filled with blossoms aromatic
And the mist enveloping us, the Lodge!

(*Note: the photograph attached is Taken by me, from a friend's , a brother's post, with whom one had spent many many hours together at RKMRC , Narendrapur, Kolkata, Shri /Mr. Mrinmoy Pratihar, )

About hills, adventures, poesy, Peace,*

Once i found You, walking down
The road, faraway from the town,
Amidst the green, those hills,
Fauna and flora, a Sublime feel,
And the air cool, sweeping as it passed
Through our liberated hearts,

Once i found You, walking down,
The road, faraway from the town,
Amidst nature, Profound , the Best,
With her Motherly Pure, as if blessed,
And the chill coupled with adventure, thrill
Came calming straight as we climbed the hills.

(*Note: The photograph attached was taken by Me, while touring the hills, on a vacation.
Found that Old but Sturdy man, walking briskly by us, with long strides.)

That road up the hill*

That road up the hill,
Once brought before us, Peace
And that tranquil feel,
Of finding flowers naturally on bloom,
Of monasteries with a lot of space, rooms,
For us to stand, sleep, wait, pray,
For us to make out the beauty of a day,

That road up the hill,
Once brought before us, Beauty,
And that serene feel,
Of finding incense bearing trees,
Of little joyous faces of carefree kids,
For us to play, sing, laugh with them,
For us to make out We All Are The Same.

(*Note: the photograph attached was clicked by me, while touring the hills, on a holiday, a vacation.
The place where the picture was taken was actually a Buddhist Monastery.
This particular poem, with fourteen lines, is an experiment done by me of the usual Sonnet sequence, with fourteen lines, having seven lines each , in each stanza.
Not Petrarchan or Shakespearean though.)

Ode to Mother,*

O Thou Mother,
You have kept us green,
How, beautifully, since
Our origin, from mere cells,
In waters Thine, floating,
Amoebic, little lives,
Nourished from you,
And the shine, those dews,
Of That Holy Light, Zeus,

And whence once,
One June or July or August,
Monsoon upon us,
We go on a tour,
Wanderer we, the souls,
How we got the chance,
To be merged in your beauty,
Green as it appeared, Your Piety,

Lotus pond, filled with aroma,
Of Love and wonders,
How I tried to capture
Thy love , thy eternal vast,
Shaded by Trees, our wanderlust,
How turned photographic,
How we to thy refuge, we the meek,

So many years after,
Praising Beauty Thine,
Your Day, Earthly, Divine,
How again i go back,
To see, Thou, upon a revisit, not Offtrack,
Your Perpetuity, our reclusive meet,
How, again go walking down memory street,
How again i go loving you, Mother,
Seeing you, clicking pictures, preserving,
All that us to your soft Bosom happily bring.

(*Note : the photograph attached was done by me, many years ago, upon visiting The Botanical Gardens.
Today, April twenty second, is "The Earth Day")

Ode to Venus*

Seeing Thou lying on silken Bed,
With grapes and apples, by thy side, 
Just beside, thy pillow, never to Weep,
Foolish mortals like we, no conviction, 
No purpose, either, just small figs,

Is such a horrendous Act, Blasphemy doth Thou create, O You, The Holy Maid,

Thy fidel,  lap dog,  near Thou, lying too,
Bowing, before Thou,

And Thy hand curled into the Space,
The Womb, of the Universe, Sheer Poesy in Art where go full throttle, Burst and busted too,
By Thy Holy Shocking Disdainful Act,

O Titian, You art such an Artist True,
Making the Whole Of The World Coming To You,

By Thy ordeals, by Thy Tasks, By Thy Boldest Shape,
Figures of Visual Pleasure, Challenging All Nakedness,

So similar You and Francisco Created Truth,
So synced You Two Holy Art forms maketh me brood,

And here, i, like a child , knowing nothing,
Filled with foolish silly thoughts, thinking Obscene,
Dump Thou,

O Olympia! 
No man mortal can stand Before You,
No woman mortal can Challenge Your Holiness,

With Thy Universal Womb, Thou whence,
Put the World into horrific sensual pains.

{*Note: this is based on a painting , oil on canvas, Blasphemous kind, done by Titian, (Tiziano Vacelli)titled: "Venus of Urbino" , showcased in 1583, though actually completed in 1538, much earlier than E.Manet created Olympia , which was completed in 1863, and showcased in Paris Salon, two years later,in 1865, as per available information}

At thy door,cycling*

It must have been a beautiful afternoon,
Of Autumn turning everything leafy,
Fallen true, to the redness mixed with orange of the halo,
Of the Sun, going to sport a tee shirt such,
Of colors so magnanimous
That it must have come through
All the layers of atmosphere,
Just to You, Ruane,
And You being gifted with
Eyes and hands so colorful
That you go doing
Your works, O Manning!

How much hours have you spent,
To hold that lane, those houses,
That man, walking out,
To the street, must have been,
Thy neighbour,

And those flowery trees,
You surely made love with them,
With your palms, You must them have cared,
To let them bloom fullest,

How i, by Thy works,
Having been so bound,
Arrive at thy door,

That cycle
Comes how full,
Circular roads having ridden,
By thy works so bidden,

How I find Beauty,
Of that land,
That lane,

Of our lives,
Growing.

(*Note: the picture attached was done with meticulous care and gifted hands, by a Painter and Artist, Ruane Manning, courtesy: Alex Artista, "Art without limits" series, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

With clouds angelic, asleep, *

With those clouds angelic,
Singing a lullaby,
Whence Thou paint a canvas,
Little me I how find there,
Asleep not in the valley, of tears,
As once a poet wrote,
Seeing a soldier hit
By bullets, under the shade of a Tree,not even knowing whether he was alive or dying

But Thy lullaby, how returns me to me,
My innocence, which might, and may,
And always so , appear, Childish,

But what Canst i do,
Tell me,
Finding a canvas of a nocturnal sky
With the sickle of the moon
Just by the bed, so beautifully passing by,

And the warmth of the quilt, like freshly woven one,
Keeping my eyes, with Peace, so like a son,

What Canst not i not sing
Thinking of our Truth of a beginning,

Whence with a nocturnal tune,
With a lullaby, You , to me, from faraway,
So come.

(*Note: the painting attached is done by a good ol' friend of mine, Sam Carlo. All one can say, is that, one is gratified, finding such an awesome artist, painter.

"Asleep in the valley" is an Arthur Rimbaud poem, an anti war poem.)

The breeze must have been hard

The breeze must have been hard,
Just the way it always has been,
By the seas, Mediterranean,
Where once like a dream
I have found
You and then those stories,
Poems, paints, all they came,
Sometimes, one by one,
Following,
Sometimes like the smooth air,
Caressing you and me,
And our story
Too,

Now out of pregnancy,
Whence the our baby
Is becoming slowly,
Worded,
We can only be patient guards,
Of that baby,
And babies of the World,

Is it not, Isabel
Our thoughts,

You knowing me,
Like you walking by the shores
Of our fictions and worded poesy
And unworded too,

Is it not our only Choice,
To keep our voice
For poesy, recreation, rejuvenation, original,
And count the meteors that fall

At night,
Shooting stars like,

Is it not,
Isabel,
Now that i can find you,
Everywhere,
Perfect,

Like this painted us,
You holding your straw hat,
Against the breeze,
Walking slowly by the beach,
And waves of the Sea,
At your feet lapping. (*Note: upon a painting, courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Through the Cloudy Scape, By Sheer Agape, (ii)*

Through the cloudy scape,
Thinking of Thou,
Loving you dearly,
Thinking of Thy Truth of BEAUTY
And Innocence never to be tarnished,

Sometimes i look up,

Sky, Yours,

So whitish blue, 

As if Mount Olympus, 

There Standing surrounded

By mist, never to be

Caught by mortal eyes mine,

(And painted true,

But not for  little,insufficient, me,

For Thy Vast, Thy Dew,)

And there, whence I think of Thou all,

The Eternal,

 i , like a child, whence search for Thou, 

Thou all, 

And see, how , through Agape,

I find You, 

Sitting at the Head of the table, 

On the left,

Having a Feast,

With Ares and Aphrodite

At the Centre,

Athena, Poseidon, Cronus too,

At the right,

All having a Feast,

And seeing Thou there

How i be hungry too,

For more of You,

Your light, 

O The Holy , 

The Bright.

(*Note : based on A Painting, done by Cornelis Van Poelenburgh, a seventeenth century Dutch Painter, who actually produced Two almost identical versions of paintings titled 

"The Feast of Olympians". Here in the Second Version , as taken by me from an archive, shows Dionysus, the God of Vines, at the Head of the table, on the left)

Ode to Olympia*

Finding Thou, on thy bed,
Looking at Us, with a calmed face,
Naked, stark, visible Profound , Thy Innocence,
Challenging the Civil, The Uncivil too,
By the Greater Reality, of Only Only You,
(Even, not looking at The Black Servant Yours,
Whom You hath kept as Your Suitable Company,
That Black Servant, whom upon You relied the most,
Who hath cometh with flowers true,
Only for you, as a worshipper,
But You being So True, never even giving that a view,
Those flowers which You love the most,)

I, just stay fully shocked,
Dismayed becomes how my heart,
And how thy Holy Fire engulfs me,
To take me Soul, to Thy Act of Blasphemy,

O Thou Olympia , True,
Naked, Stark, beyond Physical entity,
Pray You, come to me and my City,
And by Thy Feverish Eyes,
Thy Naked Gait, Thy Brilliance,
Make all go lie, right there, at Your feet,
Where You, The Warrior Divine, just with
Disdain Lie, as Manet found Thou
In years few hundreds, before we were born,
And before we became democratic, by an Independent morn.

(*Note: upon a painting by Edouard Manet, exhibited in 1865, taken by me from E.Manet's Archive, kept at Musee d'Orsay, as opposed to Titian's identical painting, in which Olympia had been shown differently, with Her left hand curled, welcoming the World, also , like Manet, sensuous but stark , real, and even more strong and bold, challenging the utmost).

Let's without hands sit on the tree*

Like that painting,
Like bloody carcass, creepy,
Right on a dead tree,
Violence of sabres, bayonets,
Whence ripped men, women, children,
Ruthless, like the tongues slimy of greed and grease,
Francisco whence once told upon Art,
And played with the carnage, by His immortal hands, making red
All sheets white, of His Beauty,
Just, just to stand by the dying humanity,

Sometimes, seeing us,
So lame, so crippled, so coward,
Killing us, me finds, how,
Francisco and his head , never bowed,

Never following rulers and scales,
Only his, vast, the magnanimous papyrus,
His paints, his sketches, his charcoal art,
Blackish, only to make the thoughtless think,
And to them, how He, to Wells of red,
Turned, till the flood of blood, in the well,
Welled Up.

{*Note: upon Francisco Goya's painting titled "The Disaster of War Series", no.37}

Come, knight, come to my bed, *

Come , knight, Thou the brave,
Whence by our bedroom,
We can see the sky, so red orangy,
Colored, calling us, to meet,
On our crumpled little bed sheet,
Where we could be properly Wed,
With Your sword, rested on my throat,thy blade,

And i , totally at your ploy,
Come , knight, unlike a decoy,
Making me brave, so that
Goya's painting, come true,
In your eyes, in mine too,

Come, night, let's get wedded,
On our Holy Bed,
Just beside our window,
Whence the sky is so red,
Orangy, blue, like a Sea

Come, knight, come onto me.

(*Note: upon a painting as attached, taken by me)

Most of the times, *

Most of the times,
Finding wind chimes
Creating mellifluous music
Through the air that licks
My skin, as i go traveling,
From one place to another,
Like a light Borne feather,
i fail not to wonder and see
The sky white and blue mild,

yes, how i find you and your child,
Me that is, said and done,
Like a breezy cool morn,
In the Vast oceanic sky,
And then, sudden quite,
I find you , too, standing on the grass,
Right upon our beautiful earth
Like a painted dream, soft and fluffy,
A Tree, so translucent, heavenly,
That I wish to go there, there where
You me your kindred soul show,

A tree, so soft and fluffy,
Like those clouds cottony,
Like my self feathery,
And you envisioning me.

(*Note: upon a painting by a beautiful artist and Painter Mark Saenger, Courtesy: Keith Linwood Stover & Iulia Gherghei)

On roots and Autumn and the search of la radice *

Once for Thou
Planted a tree,
And it's roots
Knowing hath grown
Deep into the soil,
The core of our motherly earth,
Now, what can i do,
Barring praying to you,
To give out more of air,
Pure, unadulterated ,
Now i can only sit under thy shade,
And see the birds,
And the other saplings
Growing under your Profound
Kindness.

(*Note: this short scribble was posted at Instagram, earlier. 'In search of laradice' is actually a romantic fiction, novella, written by me, here the idea basic, is extended just.
Sometimes one finds the original idea everywhere like going through a spiral, a helix, leading to a vortex, etc.
#laradiceextended
#archimedianspiral
#Oneness
#autumnandleaves
#lovingU
#Devotion)

Whence You seat , with fruit basket, *

Whence i find You,
Sitting on the bench,
Just beside the resort,
Our recluse,
Just by those hills,
At that flowery valley,
Like a Mother,
We the children Thine,
(Having a perfect vacation,
From works of daily drudgery,
Chaos , shouts, curses, abuse,
Whence we go there, at thy lair,
Playing, singing, dancing, having a picnic of sorts,
Vacating our clogged , disdainful hearts,)
Just before you singing by Your shine,
Whence i find You,
Opening Your basket, of fruits and Breads,
Like a Beauty of a painted scene,
Youthful, deified, without sins,

i just get into writes, songs, unpremeditated art,
For there, i know, You shine more,
Mother, holding us, in thy sweet embrace, Pure.

(*Note: the painting attached is taken by me, from the wonderous collection of Italian paintings, as archived by a friend mine, an artist and Painter of a kind, Alex Artista, courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Going to that lake by those hills, quiet,*

Going to that lake, by its sides,
Where like a dream of Autumn,
Leaves, fall, quite, covering the earth
With their yellow, red, like falling maple shapes,
Come love, come with me,
There We Will , by our Mother's goodness,
Find our deity, Artemis, The Benign GODDESS,
She hath done everything for us,
So that we can happily pass
Our days, sunlit, our poesy, our paintings,
There we can sit , being blessed,
By Her, awesome, her Benediction,
There, we can find pure, Her Providence,

Going to the lake, still waters which holds,
By those ascetic mountains green, hills,
Come , join me, love, there, as we are here,
Till in our hearts , We get that Holy Feel,

Come, love, we will there, be free,
From all din and bustle, our city life,
Our buzzing things, like bees,
We Will get there, by Thee,
Love, our works, our Karma, coming
Calming us, to the fullest,

Come, love, going to that lake,
Decked by maple red, orangy, red, takes, of maple leaves, falling, covering us,
Come, la amore, there we our times pass.

(*Note: the painting attached is taken by me from the Archive of Italian paintings, courtesy: Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

At our country ,*

At our country, where we built with love
Our little settlement, our home,
There , come , we go , Mon amore,
There, come, we find us more,

With flowers blooming quiet,
Happy as they find the light,
With bees and butterflies,
In swarms as they take the flight,

Come, mio amore, let's go there,
That country house, of us, that bower,
Where we can take into us, the breeze,
Of spring, fragrant, blowing without cease,

Come, mate, let's take a walk,
Down that road of the country side,
Where We art born, being blessed,
By the tranquil presence of His Holiness,

Come, love, we go to that home,
At the country, filled with dreams some,
There, we can always find, our births,
Our love, our writes, our songs, our mirth,

Come, love, we make a trip,
Down the road, where We our Love, keep.

(*Note: the painting attached is taken by me, from a collection of Paintings, as archived, by a friend mine. Courtesy: Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Finding Thou, flowers so decked, one lovely night, *

Finding Thou, so fragrant,
Flowers on You,
Rosy petals,
All over You,
The Selene,
The night sky,
Starry, falling upon thee,
Silvery flakes, creating a Make,
Painted so Angelic, dreamy,

O Love, mine,
Thy BEAUTY,
Canst i ever miss,
As you keep me be~mused,

Nay, for You art eternal,
Like those Stars of the sky,
Through the vine wrapped,
As I find you, to Thou i how fly,

Eyes yours, closed,
Thinking of Thy Love,
So Divine, so True,
Deep, deeply meditative,
Makes only me, more poetic,

Canst i fail to Worship,
Thy beauteous colors,
Spread all over me,
Through our sky,
Wavy, like our seas,

And with love ,I know You me see,
Getting drenched,
From feet to head,
By our entwined souls,
By poesy of art, so embedded.

(*Note: the painting attached is done by A Great Artist with awesome vision and patience and passion for Art and Poesy.
Courtesy : Alex Artista, Musica Pittura e Dintorni)

Ode to Venus, as half asleep*

Come, Venus, The GODDESS of Love
Unblemished, Supreme,
Out of waters of Hope and quencher of all thirst,
Come, Venus, The Truest, The Divine,
Whence angels , thy sons and daughters,
Art like soft smoothest, children, innocent,
Hover over Thou, The Mother of LOVE, Purest,

Come Venus,
Not that Olympia,
Which Titan, (A Painter of a Kind,)once, depicted,
Out of Sheer denial
Of all that break me, you, all,
So ignorant, so proud, little things,
With no eyes to see Thou,
Come Venus,
Half awake, half asleep,
As Thou Art sleep,
On waves , torqouise,
So surf like, taking all violence for a ride,
Through thy waters, of Newest Birth, The Holy Tide,

Come Venus, the Eternal, the Primordial,
As painted, with lots of Hope, and Faith
By an Alexandre, The Great.

{*Note: upon a Painting, (taken from an archive, by me, with the sole objective of creating poesy, ) done by Alexandre Cabanel, painted in 1863, titled 'Naissance de Venus', kept in Musee de Orsay.}

Through the cloudy scape, by sheer agape,

Through the cloudy scape,
Thinking of Thou,
Loving you dearly,
Thinking of Thy Truth of BEAUTY
And Innocence never to be tarnished,

Sometimes i look up,

Sky, Yours,

So whitish blue, 

As if Mount Olympus, 

There Standing surrounded

By mist, never to be

Caught by mortal eyes mine,

(And painted true,

But not for  little,insufficient, me,

For Thy Vast, Thy Dew,)

And there, whence I think of Thou all,

The Eternal,

 i , like a child, whence search for Thou, 

Thou all, 

And see, how , through Agape,

I find You, 

Sitting at the Head of the table, 

On the left,

Having a Feast,

With Ares and Aphrodite

At the Centre,

Athena, Poseidon, Cronus too,

At the right,

All having a Feast,

And seeing Thou there

How i be hungry too,

For more of You,

Your light, 

O The Holy , 

The Bright.

(*Note : based on A Painting, done by Cornelis Van Poelenburgh, a seventeenth century Dutch Painter, who actually produced Two almost identical versions of paintings titled 

"The Feast of Olympians". Here the First Version , as taken by me from an archive, shows Zeus, at the Head of the table, on the left)

How Beautiful Art Thou*

As we have cooked tortilla,
As we have made
Poetry,

Why not i
Say a few
Words.

(*Note: this poem was posted earlier at Instagram )

Ode to Francisco Goya *

Thou Art inexhaustible,
Even after looking at thy canvas vast,
Going through thy works,
From Your greatest scenes,
Of wars and people dying,
And correlating Thou
In poesy Ferlinghetti kind,
Of fallen dreams, billboards 
Eating up the skies,
Growing by bits, following Beats
Of poesy wrought in pains,
Whence i try to delve deep 
Into Your serene sense,
how i a connoisseur just
And a terrible lover
Of Thou, find Thou being so subtle
Almost feathery, soothing, beauteous, feminine,

O How You, Francisco, 
In Spanish realm Thou brought
Divine pleasure in forms of art,
It must have broken Your eyes,
Blinded it must have, as Thou had worked,
Perhaps having the broad day, as light
And tapers and candles flickering at night,
To work on relentless, Your Devotion,
In painting the Goddess, The Giantress,
Reclining on Her silken Bed,
As if for The World, keeping On Wait,
As if challenging the human
The fallens to rise up, to discover the primordial,
The Divine spiritual Innocence,

How doth Thou create
Two versions of us,
The naked and the clothed,

How doth Thou make us
To believe, only whence we
Be come a Devotee truly
We can kneel before Thou
The Creator, The Supreme,
Naked like , shameless. [*Note: the painting attached was done by The Greatest Spanish Painter Francisco Goya, titled 'la maja vestida'(1800-1805). Francisco Goya created 'la maja desnuda'(1797-1800). Both the paintings are preserved at Museo del Prado, Madrid. Francisco Goya's paintings inspired American Beat Poets too.
Lawrence Ferlinghetti and Allen Ginsberg and the rest. Interestingly Allen Ginsberg came to India, and more specifically to Kolkata and stayed somewhere at Jessore Road and inspired many Bengali poets like Bishnu Dey, to start the Beat Poetry movement in West Bengal.
In fact Ginsberg wrote a poem on Jessore Road itself and his experience of staying at Kolkata and interacting with poets of the city.
This poem was earlier posted at this blog, and also at Instagram by Me)

Remembering Port Alba, Napoli*

Don't know why oft
You arrive Isabel
And our Port Alba, Napoli,
Cicero's face, shining, laughing, sporty,
Remember, our going to the park, to the beach, to the sea,
Early morns or at twilight,
You wearing a white skirt bright,
And a simple straw hat,
Your brownish golden hair,
Smelling lavender,

Don't know why oft
You arrive Isabel soft,
Like a painted scape,
Our going to Napoli dreams,
Your face always keeping me dated
To all of my works, my going to places,
Collecting data, noting them , loading,
In books, in machines boring,

Don't know why oft
You isabel come , just drop,
Like a feathery calm, a bless,
Wearing white gown and top,
A translucent you in a beauteous dress,
Standing before my eyes, for me to see,
Your Awesome, Your Light, Your beauty.

(*Note: upon a painting, done by the beautiful painter Italian of a kind, Alex Artista. Taken by me from His "Art without limit" series.
Courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni.

#Laradiceinpoemextended )

For that Barmaid*

Once going to a Bar,
Found Thou,
On wait, standing,
At the counter,
With fruits and potions,
Right in front of You,
And that Great Huge Wide
Mirror, mirroring you, but not i,

The mirror, showed everyone,
At Thy back, as placed, so magical, Divine,
Art Thou standing solitary, quiet,
As the Centre, so musical,
Turning me like a spectacle almost
With Thou, standing there, so poised, as composed,

Then, Philos i, find, in Your eyes,
Mirrory me, in You, so held as i,

So old a painting, kind,
Eighteen eighty two,
A Parisian bar,
Manet there how i,
See, by thy bless, find.

{*Note: upon a painting based, done by French painter Edouard Manet , which was painted and exhibited first in Paris salon in 1882. ( Maurice Merleau- Ponty, the french Philosopher, called it an Epical work. Dot to Eternity and eternity to dot thing is a mirrory life.)

#archimedianspiral
#dottedtillwearehere #dottoeternityneternitytodot
#lovingUMore}

At the fields of sunflowers on bloom

Sometimes, you take me to,
The fields of sunflowers,
On bloom as i those  blooming hearts find,

They arrive so golden, so scenic, beauteous,
Drenching me, lighted, porous,

i run through them, those yellow golden flowers,
Getting their enchanting fragrance,
Their pollens, getting attached to my shirt, my arms, my hands,
Their yellow, making me their part,

Sometimes, I go the fields of sunflowers, such,
That i go like a traveler, a Soul,a Troubadeur,
Seeking recluse, in thy panoramic scence, a Bower.

Loving Thou,

Loving Thou, keeps me awake,
Every millisecond, (if i, so, for You, only, thus, spake,)
I look at those flowers, blooming, trembling,
A photographic mind, such a scape,

I see that butterfly yellow winged,
Gathering pollens , only to spread them
In the morning's breeze, mild, for Thy Love,
I see, Peace, such a bliss, pantheistic,
I see, a World, blooming too,
In us, me and you,

Is it just a dream, i ask You,
You, knowing me, my childish views,
Of thinking all in One Boat,
Of singing for You, love, with easy throat,

And You, say, running your fingers
Through my hair, caressing me,
'You can only find me,'

Then i look at you,
Love, your face, your flowing hair,
Your beauty, which oft takes me to sing
Holding thy simple music, as emanating forever,
From that ancient tuneful air,

And i think to myself,
If that you wish, love, for me to delve,
I will, do that, as oft, as i can do,
Only, only, Loving You.

At thy valley, just by the hills,*

At thy valley, green, grassy, just near those hills,
Where oft we go, to find us, more,
Amidst the serene bless of our Mother, Nature,
Away from the din and bustle,
There, whence we arrive, traveling,
Without thinking where we are going,
Only thinking of finding in US,
Peace, karmatic, shiny, Luminous,

I sit, on the the valley, covered the cool,
The breeze of spring, filled with cherry blossoms' parfum,
Filling me, as we look at drops of dew
On leaves of your leaves, mine too,

Then, like a painting perfect,
(Mother Earth, as for us, taking us to a State
Of mind, soul, joined, rolled, wrapped,
Into One, the lovely waves of Love,
beyond any meaningless small timelapse,)
How I try to feel each and every moment subtle,
Your roses, hills, meadows, cherry trees, lakes and myrtle,

Then, I go wandering more for you,
Only to get swayed by thy love, painted, like a deity, of Peace , Hope and tranquil long overdue.

(*Note: upon a painting , loosely based, by Joseph E. Krachkovski)

Whence Thou come, angelic, at the door of our opened heart, one morning of our waking *

It was another morning perhaps,
it might be another Beauty of a dusk,
I , being so flooded  by thy gift, of creative ignorance,
Didn't even know what the times we were in,
I only looked at You, like morning's dew
On my rosy petals, turned softest,
By Thy Peace and Grace,
Chopin Then  i heard , like  spring waltz,
Beethoven i heard too, in me,
And Then , i again, looked at You,
Such poise, such Gait, such colored escape!

Who had been thy muse,
Who hath caused You, to run,
Your painted awesome , your canvas,

I didn't care to know that even,
Whence You come, painted thus,
I just get into songs, your creation,
I just think of nothing, no ways,
Only, whence, Weguelin,
You i find, so filled with the Beauty of The Unseen,
The Unfelt, The Rhyme, The Lovely potion, the Rhythm.

(*Note: the picture attached is Wonderous work of painting, by John Reinhard Weguelin, titled 'Lesbia')

Where with Thy love, i bloomed for thou,

Whence like a Beauty of a spring summer day,
Coming home , of us,
Thou smile,
Asking me,
How has the day, so far been
What i have done the whole day,
What i missed, what i wished to say,
(Knowing how with works varied
i, child Thine, keep my self hurried,
From songs to memories,
Of our living in Potent dreams,
Of me finding solace in your lips,
Red, so filled with love, never kissed,
Thou the Divine, my GODDESS so red,
In whose kind core, i first saw the light,
Whence i was just a bud, dreaming of becoming,
A rose, planted in thy garden,)

I just look at You,
So soft, so blessed, so filled with lovely dew,
That comes to me, by feverish rise,
So thermometer which can ever measure,
So measureless Thou hath eternally in me caused a seizure,

I just look at you, Rose, my past,
At thy garden, one December get together,
Whence i just stood before Thou,
And became a lens of an eye,
Visioning you, in my love, you and i,

And I recall, how we , buds, thence,
Sang before you, our camaraderie,
Our company of Joys unlimited,
Our guitars being strummed,
Our reading Thou, O Truth Fairy!

Are those days gone, as I ask you,
Seeing again, again, Love mine, you,
Your lips, red, never kissed,

You just tell me, like my Isabel, true,
"La amore, you were there with me,
You are there, you will be,"

Your smile seems so filled with confidence,
While, i, thy child, how , see, forever remain uncertain,

But then, as You have said it, without saying much,
And as i can easily hear, (perhaps by clairvoyance)
Your deepest love, your love dense, Your voice,

I just get more fragrant, rosy,
By your love, so peaceful, so cozy.

Whence i find you Isabel, at the sea, with waves at thy feet

Whence i find Thou,
Isabel, at the lovely sea,
Where oft went we,
To find you and me,
More into our Love,
i look at thy feet,
How waves come,
And you how look at the marvel
Of motherly waters
Coming relentless,
Caressing your toes, ankles,
On wet white sands,
How the waters get  soaked,
And how the waters recede,
Temporarily,
Only to come again,
To you, to me,
To us,
To all the people,
Standing before,
After, by our sides,

How we all get the water spray
Drenching our souls,
Lighted by Mother Nature's incomparable Beauty,
So refreshing, calming, soulful,

Seeing you Isabel,
my love, my life, my writes,
Canst you see
How we
Now , are spread,
(Merged with the sea
And the sky,
Painted by LOVE
And million thanks
That we thought always
To send, like letters of our Love,)
All over Us,
The sky, the sands, the beach,
The sea, the winds, the morning's
Mild sweet soothing breeze,
That we are now , (so beautifully dyed)
Holding in Our Heart, without cease.

~ frances

(*Note: the painting attached is Taken by me 

From the wonderous works of An Italian Painter. Courtesy : Musica Pittura e Dintorni)