Unclaimed Winter Offering to a Fine Feathered Friend

The small crust of white 
Bread I left out 

For you little brown one, 
Still lies there on the cold 

Grey slab of rock which now seems 
To be flying us ages away. 

Vazambam's Last "Poem Beginning I"

I swear I’ll never write another but 
Should I chance to try, tie my hands 
Cross my heart, let me lie forever 
Barefaced without batting an eye. 

Eyewitness to Bibliomancy

At my wits' end 
By all I see before me, 
I pick a book I believe

To hold truth; I balance it 
On its spine and allow it 
To fall open; with eyes closed 

I pick a passage and let truth flow 
Back through my fingers 
To the future

Till it blinds me.

from Nostos Sensuous

                              vantage point

on all sides

clear

monotonous

cry

of gulls sweeping back

dappled-gray tears

blue sky

.

                              headland

yet no sweet home here

save the heart

buffeting

.

breaking of waves

that convoy unrequited

love cross every wind

.

swept rock

.

                              inlet

there—

sun pockets glistening crystals stranded

in small salty recesses

 

.

                     

                              on a sour note

hardly any

song to assuage

the bitter imminent

light sapping home sickness

.

                              transients at bay

ships huddled in harbor

masses anchored on quay.

                        

Soul Food: Eating One's Heart Out

Let’s get one thing clear, chéri— 
Some brainless poetasters say
You should never, ever serve 
Soul in a poem as the main entrée, 
With spirit and heart 
As side orders, all taboo 
For offal-eating fools dying 
To eat their words 
And have them too, a tad bit 
Too tasteless for the likes of me 
And you?