Spring Carnival

Oh the feel of the vernal air!
April arrives like a carnival
Of living aromas and colors,
With parades of blossoms
Riding the sun-soaked breeze.
As we dive into the fertile green,
Their cool caress against our feet,
We hear daffodils laughing
Softly, like when breath tickles your ear.
Wish you were here.

Compassion

Compassion is not time
that passes without looking back
Or confused air
once a breeze and then the storm
It pours
not as water that freezes in the cold
It's not the sun when concealed
by darkness of a mindless cloud
Compassion does not cower
like fire in the downpour
Is not seduced by alluring words
Will not crumble beneath untold
unfelt sufferings of the world
Compassion can never be known
but from the experience of breath
through the revived reborn field
of heart that softly beats—
despite the ravages of time
howls of dolor
despite springs of agony still unhealed
and shattered memories that keep order
as fearful guards blocking the roads
despite the snoring snow-covered wolves
and homeless feelings running for cover—
having felt an openness and softened care
as if the city of heart is much much bigger
as if it's a room that welcomes and can hold
that and the breath and has room to shed a tear
as if the heart is vaster and warmer and wiser
beneath the damage and the falling snow
as if the heart is patient enough to wait
for blossoming spring and fruits of summer
But these are only words! 
Who could really know
why this time the breath had beamed with joy
returning all content
up to the mind from there

At Times

So if it's all your fault   
Then I am in the right
But then the world's unfair 

But if it's my failure 
It seems the world is fair
But I'm the one to blame 

If no one is at fault 
Nobody is to blame 
But world's no less unfair

At times the anguish wanes
The fearful guard relents
The world and I are one

At times I breathe the air
The air breathes me in turn
And pain forgets its shame

Devouring Silence

The suitcase of silence    
is veiled in black, in white; 
it tails behind on wheels 
that dance to earthy tunes, 
spinning at whim.... 

My carry-on contains 
displaced letters only.
Homeless in frozen air— 
How they blubber!

In the flying coffin,     
relics of past, hollow.
Meaning: I call poem
my home. 

I escaped with letters hostage,  
so I can be.  At last.
Alone.  I

fear devouring
silence.