While Rambling


An awkward pause and hangs
Littering an otherwise tidy saunter

A moveless tension, a muted shudder
A waltz, a tango beyond sight or sound

Flowery meadow once dappled glades
Enfolding the as yet unimaginables

A fresh breeze stirs the stillness
Pops the wig bubble and I walk on

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on September 12, 2019, in Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 2 Comments.

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