Within the imagination I am content to live This is my stay I see how plenty, how ever-expanding it is The ‘All’ a rich array Of ever-rotating colors with which to paint And never fade away
This is my stay my glorious garden, my bridge My gateway Into possibilities scarcely heard Fair whispers and inclinations Where new music can be made With purple compliments Providing shade Beneath which, Rich ideas have no graves Only wellsprings and matinees Inking inspiration It is here I eat, sleep And pray
Yes, this is my stay Where time knows no days And worries have no prey Where upon Parsons picnic blankets Are served golden words Which only ever convey A never ending display Of heavenly ballets And opportunities to say Anything you wish Poetry, Book, or Play For within the imagination Inspiration Never disobeys Yes, This Is My Stay….
Unthinkable. Lithograph of a malaise. I cannot talk. Will you abandon the thought and care about the drowning dawn? The bandaged ego of the book threatens the reader. Come and solve the puzzle of poetry. Everything was quiet except the
Stay in your cradle, dear baby, Never come out of it, It’s the heaven for you, Know it is always true. Like a little angel you are smiling and playing in its lap with frolicsome attitude, Your rosy cheeks are
I mawkishly effeminate sentiment, memories plucked from wood and field merged in a sentiment of unutterable sadness and compassion microscopic minuteness of eye, misgivings of grave kinds mockery crept into your tone, molded by the austere hand of adversity moments