Here i am having fun all alone
With my best friends
Yes , My music and phone
Dancing on own
hitting the damn floor
You heard someone knocking the window
Maybe i need their company
Welcome sunshine
Let's play some shadow games
Oh my stomach hurts
I get it , let's have some food
I hear Angels singing
Fell on the heaven
With my little teddy on side
Slept a happy grown girl
In this chapel, ten by eight
A wedding.
Guests- ghosts from the past
Crowded – stood mute.
Before the alter of life
I stood
Waiting.
Wedding March played
In silence –
For all gathered
Were deaf.
Do thee, Bala, take her
For your wife?
Will you, Bala, care for her
Feed her, clothe her, cherish her
Till death sets thee apart?
No one here but me and these gently bleating crickets
as it sends out delicate rays.
to be sung, read, or eaten -like a meal
You never heard of solitude? It comes on
after the Late Show. The eyes drift
away from the movie. As far as possible
we tend to enjoy our bodies, see?
Across the great chasm, the cowboy peered.
The more I stay alone the less I feel lonely
so many hearts singe
with my feelings
so many streets flats nations
bistros prairies hold my
frenzies hopes
here fields and bungalows
and dogs on chains
but there's one sky & sun one
subtle puppetry
I'd like my words to enter
prairie rooms ship holds
to murmur some ecstatic
forest vision
find kin in prisoners
in solitude crowds each with
his flame
They leave us so to the way we took,
As two in whom they were proved mistaken,
That we sit sometimes in the wayside nook,
With mischievous, vagrant, seraphic look,
And try if we cannot feel forsaken.
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
There overtook me and drew me in
To his down-hill, early-morning stride,
And set me five miles on my road
Better than if he had had me ride,
A man with a swinging bag for load
And half the bag wound round his hand.
We talked like barking above the din
Of water we walked along beside.
And for my telling him where I’d been
And where I lived in mountain land
To be coming home the way I was,
He told me a little about himself.
He came from higher up in the pass
Where the grist of the new-beginning brooks
Is blocks split off the mountain mass--
And hopeless grist enough it looks
Once on the kind of day called ‘weather breeder,’
When the heat slowly hazes and the sun
By its own power seems to be undone,
I was half boring through, half climbing through
A swamp of cedar. Choked with oil of cedar
And scurf of plants, and weary and over-heated,
And sorry I ever left the road I knew,
I paused and rested on a sort of hook
That had me by the coat as good as seated,
And since there was no other way to look,
Looked up toward heaven, and there against the blue,
Stood over me a resurrected tree,
A tree that had been down and raised again--
A barkless spectre. He had halted too,
As if for fear of treading upon me.
I saw the strange position of his hands--
I had for my winter evening walk--
No one at all with whom to talk,
But I had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.
And I thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.
I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.
Over the snow my creaking feet
Disturbed the slumbering village street
Like profanation, by your leave,
At ten o’clock of a winter eve.
Now close the windows and hush all the fields;
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.
It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.