He wrote so playfully;
Living every breath.
Renouncing the bane behind;
He displayed all he can.
All he cared about deep inside.
He dared to muddle the meaning
For his own art;
The art which also belonged to others.
He is an artist of clumsy walks;
A first step of a long run.
A breathing and purposeful art
Survives the death of his meaning.
There are answers always
There are questions always
He scribbled so fruitfully.
A device of worship he found so artistic
And future of brilliance in his craft.
A flavour of senses;
Drenching him in the
Purpose of his flair.
When Poets talk about Jazz
When poets talk about Jazz
It reminds me how blues sharpen the cry of a guitar.
Musical words spill all over
The soulful page of a poet.
Away from the pages of a poet
Like an amused solo wanderer
A sign on the lonely crossroad
Stands as the music of a road;
Leading to the calling and thought-out destinations
Jazz again reaches for the words
Blues pause cutting the heart
A start ends peacefully
A cut for a cut again
A broken heart for the blues and Jazz
Jazz is imagination and flights of sensual fantasy
Blues seem like a knowledge forgotten and
Remembered in fragmented revelations still
Bearing the painful past
The best thing is you can wonder and wander
At the same time with these two.