Fifty Lines

Fifty Lines

Writing a poem in fifty line
Some will laugh
And some will cry

The salmons are swimming across the Mississippi, Missouri shoreline

The boat-man upon the Ganges is gliding by
Like the woolly feathery clouds upon the blue black silver sky

My hearts hurting
My mind do not mind
Soul is sad
Flesh look for forbidden fun-filled sites
Writing rhyme in fifty line

Ink-well dry

The pen spewed out the last lustful line

Fifty plus ravens are sitting on the line

Sudden surge of power caught them in surprise

Fly they away outward in the wild, carrying with them the magic, the
spell that they been entrusted with from the dead raven kind

Writing a rhyme in fifty line

Roses are budding; a full moon is blossoming in the sky

Tulips are trying not to bend their tender heads in the windy wind of
the calm spring night

Some sparrows are busy building their nests with the thrown away
fallen twigs, leaves, and branches laying scattered upon the dry
parched ground where the grass is changing their color from green to

Above the top of the tall firm palm, pine toward the direction of the
Alpine twilight the busy sparrows are constructing their homes of

The nightingale sing a song whose tune is as lonely and saddening as
the stars bright forlorn, floating on their ethereal fused fancy flight

The willows in the woebegone woods of sleepy subtle surprise weep
silently in sighing sigh, remembering the sorrowful tales of the long
lost forgotten prince, princess, lady, knight

The poets that never wrote

The painter that always adored the bare bold beauty all nude beneath
the sylvan spring blanket of the conifer and sycamore

Every female body is the most beautiful shrine to behold, the most
blessed and enigmatic beauteous beauty that the good God ever made

The playwright that never probed into the deep dark minds of the
players of the play who he wrote and let loose unto this stage of
strange shapeless life and death

Writing a poem in fifty line

The candle dies giving out its flicker of soft serene somber solemn

Syria still bleeds
Assad kills
China, Russia supports and comforts the killer, the rapist beast

Writing a poem in fifty lines
I come from a Land that has fifty States
Each one has its own name, and harbor a heaven with her own rich
traditional history, geography, flora, fauna, uniqueness

My New Jersey, also known as the Garden State

Where violets blue and indigo smile and play

Honey bees collect honey

The healthy horses rest on yellow, golden hay

The farmers’ fields are filled with the richness of blueberries
blissfully blessed

Red-oaks that stand tall and straight  atop the tops of the
mountainous beds

The beautiful brook-trouts are swimming in the magical moonlit river
and brook of bewitching maya marvel maze

Writing a poem in fifty line
I cannot see very well on my left eye
Limp a little too as I stroll down the aisle
The church bells ring declaring the wedding of the husband and wife

Religions never touched me
Nor sciences surprised
Humanity took my breath away by their senseless foolish pride
Writing a poem in fifty line

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