The Dreamer’s Lounge


the echoes of the mind

 

Peace will return
as the silt begins to wither,
as the sirens of spring
begin to strutter
the old conversations
in the dreamers lounge,

remember we were once young,
the fire in our hearts
the old books we carried
in our golden bags,
the sharpened pencils
with their stranded designs
as the orange peel
remains in half drunken cup

as the old wires tremble
to find its plug,
the silence moves
through the winds of its rapture
as the old stories
finds its characters
Through the scribbles
of its fracture

near the old heaps of books,
in there, remains the enigma
of our times and of our rhymes
and gone, in split second
the echoes of the mind……

KASHKIN

Yellow House-Unplugged (Part 2)


cafe-exh-19331

 

Thoughts that stretch out like old winding roads
across these corners of the mind
in bewilderment , the expression numb ,
as the fingers stretch out for its opium,
the flight of soul, from one place to another
follow you all, these ideologies of change,
from one point to another, in madness
across these tinted windows, the cider trees,
the old pavement and its noise to the old place
the view hidden by the sheets of its past
the green fields of bliss and dusty roads..

As image unfolds in its composition
through these windows of distance,
in haze, these old grey skies and my being
in these cider trees, hidden
the lonely sun and its warmth
one by one, remnants of innocence
in disappearance, only in the distance,
the imagination and the old memory
the lonely residents in quest eternal
only the perfumes of those conversations
missing matrix of the old genes
from one season to another,
engulfed in years of travel and its function

Frozen, never these old clocks will rotate
in its image and upon its walls,
the empty air and its imprints
in confinements of its earth
the hands and its reflection in murmurs
only the story and its characters
to reach out to these whispers
Stillness in roars of the ocean

Never will you return to say ” hello”
by that yellow house, there remains
these monuments of your childhood
of magic, laughter and butterflies
there you remain, hidden
behind these cider trees and its curtains
the lonely sun and its warmth,
too cold, as million years in between
no time for you, to return
as I lay underneath in my peace
upon me this whole universe and its burden

Never will you return to your characters,
the forbidden names, and expressions
by that yellow house, there remains
these monuments of your childhood
of freedom, purity and its expression
there you remain, hidden
behind these corners of your mind
the lonely sun and its warmth,
too cold, as million years in between
no time for you to return
to your yellow house and its inhabitants
where we first gazed upon you
the beautiful boy, the golden fury….

Never will you return to your past,
to the old wailings of dervishes and its echo
by that yellow house, there remain,
these monuments of your childhood
tickled stories and 1000 miles run
there you remain, hidden
behind these echoes of its distance
the lonely sun and its warmth,
too cold, the million years in between
no time for you to return
to your yellow house and its inhabitants
where we first discovered you
in fever, the ocean of madness….

Never will you return to say ” hello”
by that yellow house, there remains
these monuments of your childhood
of magic, laughter and butterflies
there you remain, hidden
behind these cider trees and its curtains
the lonely sun and its warmth,
too cold, as million years in between
no time for you, to return
as I lay underneath in my peace
upon me this whole universe and its burden