soft grumbles

How many would live to be ninety five
living alone, with nothing
but a penny
in his pocket?

How could he be left alone
living in pain, homeless,
begging for food?

How can his country betray him
when he sacrificed
everything including his life
fighting the enemy
so that we
can live in freedom?

The folly of time
is on this decrepit man’s shoulder.
How could we allow him
to live in squalor?

He does not need statues
erected on his name.
All he needs is food to eat
a roof to sleep under
until he does not wake.

But then,
we don’t make
statues of mere foot soldiers,
do we?

I could have been looking at your silhouette
as you block the view of the moon,
its white luminescence
betrayed by the golden glow
of my tiny candle
rendering every contour of your face
like a Dutch painter’s chiaroscuro.

The stillness of the black night
is punctuated by the sound of a leaky faucet
with ladle dipped in a half-filled jar
slowly filling up with tiny droplets.

I am like a tiny lost ant
frantically searching for the trail,
minding my bearings or forever
be gone.

I am a bee
hovering over a flower
waiting for it to open
so I could kiss her,
pollinate
propagate

When shall you grow
to be a lady? Alas, I can’t wait
I shall take you now
with my expert hands,
wild imagination
and my craft

rolly