So as not fall into the older metric rut and everything ten, we stay in our nine to pause and reflect before we are ten. Iambic pentameter may do for us now in a verse leaving minds totally blank. A sonnet or two may awake a conscience to avoid our falling into sleep analogy.
Comparisons are the best for viewing. However odious, we know relative sizes and the light they cast on our daytime. At night it will be a different ballgame when moon hides in tall coconut trees and big or small, be crescent or ringed, comparisons are day-wise in fortnight.
Moon is eaten by the earth bit by bit. A demon drank nectar surreptitiously and annually eats the moon as if pie. Moon has turned marble like the graves of our older ancestors and not so old. A stitch in time will save all our nine we say Poloniusly in window curtains. It is where we hide snooping on death.
In any case we just burn our ancestors rarely bury them in moon-like graves.We are not rich to afford tall pyramids.(Neither borrower nor lender be policy.Borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.)
Nine nights , nine days we spin yarns what we have learnt by our nine holes.We have to stop some where by meter, before our holes are lost in a big Hole.
Even the roughest among them cannot stand rain , this weather, while it is a nice camera picture of iron cable holding up clothes.Any iron shall love a village rain and succumb to long term charm.
Take bald eagle man seen rusting on park bench looking at the sky with his eyes , tiny white flowers,dropped from sky’s white clouds.His iron slowly collects its oxide and will drop away by iron bench .
The eagle rusts in its baldness,as bald eyes fail to swoop down on lowly creatures, two in bush.Its eyes slowly rust and fail away.
That he no more exists is still in the recycle bin. He is in the process of erasure.His records will be emptied when the bin will be emptied.
In the meantime he is under a glass sky .He stares at the glass sky till the bin is emptied .
He is now adequately cottonballed in the nose.The ants have to be stopped in his neural pathways.
That he no more exists is now no longer in the recycle bin.
Something came up in green beside our highway, from car, we stopped, to leak like sky.A lone tree rose in silence on an expanse of rice for future.A white room stood company with a machine to leak water to the rice , a future growing in unknown stomachs in wait.
Tree stood bare in the sky with a tuft of green to a side,oddball green against a blue,a broken piece of vegetation soaked in silence leaking there.
A few somber thoughts into it , the lexicon of a new headstone would rise in tomorrow’s sleep against your wishes, towards a horizon as you plod along , drag your feet in the thicket with a shovel for deep digging for scoopfuls of earth.
You cannot grow out of it now , this night. A name is a name, whatever rose you may call it. But if tomorrow ever lives you may still get out of it leaving it nameless among roses spread on it.
Lady poet would think of an arm not moving ,not gesturing, to write without a secretary by side. But she is free with the other arm to move watching the horizon, ascending and descending.
(Taking off on Louise Gluck’s poem Approach of the Horizon)