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ADELAIDE Independent Bimonthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Bimensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 




 

 



 

 

 

 

 

ON THE SANDS OF LIDO
By B. A. Varghese

 

 

 

 

 

Knowing

It was enough
knowing he was there
his presence like an army of giants
baritone voices encouraging
along the battle line
strong hands behind me
guarding guiding
plunging me forward to my future man
yet when I look back
I see only the barren field
where once he stood
my knowing lost
among the footprints
of giant men.


 

 

 

 

On The Sands of Lido

The white sands stretched
till it sat beige under the waves
inching along the shore.

The droning of the surf
muffled the wind’s moan
along the foam in the chops
of seawater.

There by the shore she sat
staring into the blue beyond
the white, beyond the bright
pale ocean rippling under
the sun.

She sat with her hand
on her hip in her red
soft swimsuit, belly
exposed, playing
with ties that came undone.

She is like a streak of red
against the white and the beige
and the pale;
a smudge of crimson
on an empty canvas
waiting for the artist
to finish his deep stare.

 

 

 

 


Bacon Tree

Sound out the air sirens,
it was found in Florida Keys,
a decadent pursuit of happiness
to find such an indulgent treat,
so leave your work and tell your spouse
to spare the kids from school,
for lifelong labor is the price
to own and enjoy such a thing.
No greater joy than to stand
in view of friends and family,
underneath the branches of the delicious bacon tree.

Such a fruit is worth the chase,
like toiling over poetic lines,
or working for kingdom keys,
when possessed its luster never dulls,
ever after gratifying the soul,
for where your treasure is, there your heart
will also be, so now our sides grow bigger
with every heavy breath we take.
We’ll smile and close our eyes, forever
lying, you and me,
underneath the branches of the delicious bacon tree.


 

 

 

 

Being a Poet

They say we are all of one source,
all being poets by virtue of being human,
every person, even if one cares
for written lines of intensity or not,
everyone on this terrestrial ball
is capable of uttering profound truths,
inmost expressions of emotions,
measurements of humanity,
though I am unsure where I fit.
Or can these be lies from those
who understand but a feeble shadow.
Like little children who play
with words, delighting in sounds,
making their own language,
foreign tongues for elder ears,
and who are not hindered to enter
the kingdom for it belongs to them,
poets cannot be in everyone,
for lines of rhyme, rhythm, or meter
are not written by men or women,
but by little gods who play,
yet I am on the verge
of nothing.

 

 

About the Author:

 

B. A. Varghese graduated from Polytechnic University (New York) with a degree in Electrical Engineering and is currently working in the Information Technology field. Inspired to explore his literary side, he has earned a B.A. in English from the University of South Florida. His works have appeared in Cleaver Magazine, Apalachee Review, Prick of the Spindle, and other literary journals. (www.bavarghese.com)

 

 




 




 

 

 

     
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