Your love prised me open like a clam
    numb heart
    opened to an oyster pearl
    of giggling joy
    nose twister
    bouncing on my poor chest
    like a mad puppy
    growling in my ear
    tiny hands pushing flesh
    into a dozen pleasing shapes
    putty face stretched into a
    samurai, frog and monster.
    And now you deck me out
    in nature's finery,
    a beached, snoring Neptune
    bejeweled with flotsam from the sea–
    cat's eyes and kelp, pale sea lettuce
    bleached herring bones and
    coral shards for teeth.
    Aroused from my mock sleep
    I rear up, roaring
    and you rush into the sanctuary of sea
    shrieking from this monster you've created.
    Under a warm sky
    I cast off clinging robes of kelp
    spit sand and guard
    your playing in the tide.
    Child-sweet, brief thing of flesh
    I guard your playing in the sea
    with my own quiet eyes
    of love.

       – Jogyata.

    When I was just a little lad
    my Poppa said to me,
    "It's time to make your old man proud,
    a pianist you shall be."

    He sent me off to music school
    with tutor Mrs. Jewel.
    The name was inappropriate,
    in fact she was plain crewel.

    Just one wrong note, she'd shout my name
    and strike me with a cane.
    My little digits went all blue
    and caused a lot of pain.

    I mastered preludes, rattled off
    arpeggios and scales,
    while Mrs. Jewel lashed and yelled,
    "In my school no-one fails!"

    But one day kind fate intervened;
    we had a largish 'quake.
    The house began to rock and pitch,
    the earth began to shake.

    A flight of ducks fell off the wall,
    a fishbowl – it was shattered.
    A pot plant crashed, a painting flew,
    my tutor's nerves were battered.

    She sprang up from the piano stool,
    she lurched towards the door.
    She staggered vainly round the room
    then tumbled to the floor.

    "O Lord !" she cried, "my hour has come."
    She gave an awful wail.
    Her eyes took on a ghastly hue,
    her features went all pale.

    And though all round, destruction reigned,
    the scene I did ignore,
    including Mrs Jewel, pale
    and cowering on the floor.

    For I, more terrified of she
    than of this odd dilemma,
    I played straight through the episode,
    ignored the seismic tremor.

    I dashed off triplets, semibreves,
    it was my finest hour,
    while Mrs Jewel upon the floor
    could only wail and cower.

    Each note was true, my fingers flew
    across the tinkling keys.
    I played and played and couldn't stop,
    my father's hopes to please.

    At last the 'quake it passed us by,
    my tutor left the floor.
    A new respect was in her eyes,
    she staggered through the door.

    "You'll never make the stage, my boy
    Your father may be shattered,
    but a brave young man you'll one day make."
    I really felt quite flattered.

    "While musically you mightn't be
    the maestro we had thought,
    the qualities you've just displayed
    they can't be sold or bought."

    With that she clasped me in her arms,
    you wouldn't have believed.
    She swept me from the piano stool,
    a giant hug bequeathed.

    And from that day the Big Quake came
    to stop her reign of terror,
    she made the simple heartfelt plea:
    "From now on call me Sarah."

    My old Dad quietly took the news
    I wouldn't be a star.
    He said, "I've still got faith in you,
    I think you'll go quite far."

    "I think a lawyer you could be,
    this time you mustn't fail.
    Let's see if you can make it there..."
    but that's another tale.

       – Jogyata.