The Glassblowers Apprentice
So you
blow
to create
you
puff to enlarge
twirl
to shape
dunk
to solidify.
You
sold it for four thousand dollars,
amazing
what a bit of hot air does.
The American Revolution
The
Democrats came out fighting in 2012
the
war chest of the Republicans emptied
the
bloodshed on the streets of Chicago
the
rising of the gangs on the streets of LA
times
when Red beat White and vice versa
blue
days when the star spangled banner
was
burnt on the avenues of Washington DC
Ten
Commandments forgotten in Holydom.
The
back waters of Kentucky and Tennessee
reminiscent
of the days of the feuds, refueled
as the
stills of Louisiana spill their firewater
to
fuel riots on the plaza’s of Houston and El
Paso
the
American Revolution caused by foreign wars
fights
outside with the neglect for life within,
the
ladies of the Auxiliary Christian Martyrs
withhold
sex to stop their mindless men warring.
The
Space Needle in Seattle
spins red, white and blue
trying
to show some sense prevails, normalcy
yet
neath it’s height gangs of GOP and Dem’s clash
the
Wall Street Journal mirrors a plummeting dollar
and
an even more plummeting stock market, bonds
unleashed
to each side to fight their campaign,
The
Great Lakes lined with the Mediterranean Fleet,
the
Pacific Fleet off San Diego and San Francisco,
The
beat of the drum on Virginia and North Dakota
hills
sounds
of returned fire on the plains of Missouri
the
vast deserts of Arizona, Nevada, and Texas,
death
carnivals on the Rue of Saint Louis, New Orleans
the
tornados of death rampant on the pastures of Ohio
Utah the Mormons sit and pray, their only ally
ten
thousand hippies of Montana, heads raised,
the
sudden demise of order on the New York boardwalks.
Yes,
the demise of the American way, stopped
because
it failed to heed the world and the world bit back
the
World roared, sold America out from under
itself,
bankrupted
the very powerbase it had followed for too long
beware
the Bear from the North, the Cougar from within
beware
the Sioux dancing, the Arapaho riding
beware
the Dolphin of Peace, the Orca of Death
beware
the fighters within, the Iraq Vet, lost (again).
Just
beware, we’re watching you.
The Life of A Poor Man in Armistice Avenue.
The
footpath his domain
a red
wall his bedstead
bus
stop seat, his bed
traffic
passing, lullaby
bag
and booze, sleeping tablet .
His
name once was Jerry Falwell, an effluent ne’er do well. From a family which
held respect and standing in the neighbourhood. All the sons (five in all) successful,
scholars, businessmen, a preacher.
He rifles
through his long coat
finds
the Bible, prays
opens
the page anywhere
reads
a scripture by heart
the
lifeblood of a step down.
Jerry
went through seminary, passed with flying colours, given a parish in Lower
Brooklyn, the place a haven for all the street dwellers escaping the law.
It was his demeanour to help the low life’s, though he never
thought of them that way, life’s lost minds.
The
brush in his right pocket
used
to fluff down the sleeping areas
to remove
lint and dust and unwanted leaves
once
used to paint life’s sorrow
today
the brush is in bed, ready.
He found
it hard to follow the teachings. So much hypocrisy, so much not to be understood,
yet people would recite it verbatim or read between the lines, to each their own. Unfortunately
in charge, he’d argue.
The
state of the Nation
well
that was their business
(pointing
to the passing cars)
the
dog from 1st and 40th peed
as it
always did, near his bed.
He looked
again at the Bible, knew which Psalm to say for his peace, which passage of Genesis to appease. Still even on a cold street corner the words were too much to take in.
He stepped
down from life
decided
to walk the streets
attend
to the “lowlifers” – bowed
speak
to them at their level
street
preacher and believer – just.
The
paint on the seat was a rustic brown, sort of earth tones meant to give the city a little life. The fire Hydrant next to it a shiny Yellow, the bus stop sign red and ready. The police haven’t been for days now, they usually move him on daily.
Food
courtesy of the Food Bank
toileting,
a shelter around the corner
for
street folk to come in and shower
to do
their toileting needs,
another
ex padre runs the joint.
The
key date was 11th September 2001
when
the madness hit the Twin Towers, when his parish was inundated
with grief and morbidity. Wives and children of Firefighters, the dust coated
urchins choking to death, the poor lucky to survive.
Across
the street, Subway
scraps
from the bin interesting fare,
the
daylight hides it’s flashing sign
hides
the well to do clientele
capable
of paying for their meal.
He long
gave up on money, it never meant anything to him anyway,
just something to burn holes in pockets. His total life, even in the seminary,
geared to pennilessness. He does whistle though, and does it enough throughout
the day to afford a packet of smokes and a bottle of wretched wine.
Sometimes
he’d wake up,
rummage
through pockets
find
another ten dollar bill
stuffed
in his greatcoat pocket
the
donor a complete mystery.
The
walk to where the Twin Towers stood was lengthy, but necessary, to see why the world had gone
crazy.
On the
way, he passed several homeless people and asked them what they thought. Most
mentioned they were lucky not to be there, the subterranean carpark a common haunt.
The
dark of night finds him walking
searching
for the forbidden truth
searching
for a dog to pat
reaching
a hand out to humanity
supplicant
in his demeanour.
The
Bomb that dropped on Baghdad was beyond his comprehension. Violence should never
begat violence in his mind. If he was punched by the street gangs he’d
cower until the attack was over and move on, licking his wounds.
The
Teacher, another homeless man
passes
the time of day while walking
they
speak of nothing in particular
though
their life is sort of like that,
dawn
reaches into their psyches .
Towards
Central Park, to feed the birds with scraps from the Subway bin, the peace and solitude a
boon, maybe good does exist he thinks. A female jogger runs well round him, must
be the stench, he’s used to it now, the shunning. The birds are happy though
the pickle gets met with disdain.
Homeless
people live long
some
can be homeless all their lives
others,
mostly start after failure
failure
to fit in with society
the
need to just drop everything and crash.
Father
Dominic from the Catholic church looks after all the central city lost, ministering all the spiritual needs, looking out for
the dying, the doomed, the ones that have given up life totally. There are a
few. Jerry doesn’t exactly trust him, but lets him carry on. Just cause.
The
story of the Homeless
never ever stops, ceases, ends
every
time you look and see them
see
the lives they left behind, help
by passing
the time of day if they ask.
Looking under stones
Stony
river
the
need
to turn
stones
se what
life
lives
under.
Stony
cottage
marvel
at the
layout
turn
every stone
in your
memory
to remember
how
well built
stone
cottages
are.
Throw
stones
you’ve
picked
at perceived
indiscretions
to sully
the
tale
you
weave.
No stone
unturned
is a
life stone
it’s
a perception
that
all beneath
is well.
Driving the Decision Making Process
I got
voted onto council today
on my
honour,
I Will
Do
My
Best
for you all.
I sat
in council, the meeting started
the
pontificating Mayor
the
ever ready old councilors
new
councilors chewing nails
the
public wanting to see it work.
“Objection” I interjected
the
mayor nearly fell of his perch
I think
‘this is going to work’
the
mayor stares me down
I stand
up and announce my manifesto.
They
all cringe when I say
“I
will be deputy Mayor”
even
though I’m reasonably new
a small
sprinkling of nervous laughter,
“I
have the skills and the balls”
I sit
down, shaking from the effort
I can’t
see me lasting too long here
But
I have to drive the decision making process
to make
real issues take precedence
over
new residential zones.
I took
a savoury pie from my bag
let
the hot air go on around me,
sat
and munched while the vote was counted
a quick
count, I was consigned to the back bench
if I
stay here long enough, I’ll win.
Sadly
the world needs me now.
The Deer Hunter
The
movie stuck in mind,
did
a Wikipedia search
found
the plots and sub plots
the
memory now rekindled
of death
and death, near death
the
spinning chamber of a one bullet gun.
The
story of brothers in peace
and
brothers in arms, Saigon
the
hustle and bustle of a mad war
the
stifling heat, and voracious enemy
days
when captured and playing,
Russian
Roulette, memories of deer hunts.
This
movie stuck with me for months
Christopher
Walken and Robert De Niro
the
principal actors, lead roles super
the
rest of the cast dragged along
by the
restless plot that inundates
Merryl
Streep the love interest
back
in almighty Pennsylvania.
The
movie is taxing on your mind
asks
questions you daren't ask,
the
romanticism of war and peace
sideswiped
by constant action,
the
dialogue handled well with ease,
the
one redeeming feature, one dies.
Drying an apron on the hot element
You
know the feeling
nothing
going right
life
a crock of shit
the
phone’s been silent for weeks
the
cat scratches your legs
mail
is all bills
and
the winning lotto tickets alludes you
so burn
your favourite apron on a hot stove
smoke
out the house
burn
all the mail
carpets
ringing wet from buckets
carried
from the bathroom to the kitchen
conscience
the
neighbours see the smoke
ring
the fire brigade to poop on your party
why
did they do that, you don’t know them
the
fire is out when the big red engine
with
the noisy siren directs attention to your plight
a policeman
passing races in to clear the house
sees
you standing with your last bucket
the
burnt rag on the stove
rings
the psychiatric assessment team
to assess
you
fuck
the damage
it’s
you they’re worried about.
You
mention the bills and the lotto ticket
as if
that will stop the process
burly
firemen assess the damage,
place
the rag in the closed bin
turn
the element off
turn
to have a private chat with the cop
seems
this is the third time in a few months
yes
psychiatric help needed.
You
sit in the corner, light a smoke
not
realising it’s a doobie
the
cop grasps the weed and tosses it in the bin,
“You
don’t need that where you are going”
You
weep
where
are your family
where
are your friends
what
happened to the world you knew,
the
job long gone, too weak to work
the
policeman sums it up,
“Been
a hard few months huh”
You
stand up and go to the bathroom
lock
the door
take
a leak
light
another smoke, a real one this time
open
the window (as you don’t smoke inside)
the
cop bangs on the door
you
give him silence
he knocks
harder
the
fireman pokes his head in the window
says
everything’s ok
you
close the window,
close
your life
say
good bye to your home
exit
the bathroom
let
the cop lead you out
close
all the windows, lock the door
and
for the third time in your life
you’re
lead away to the Ward
to recover
from another depression.
Green Grasses Grow Purple
(this
is a series where each stanza increases by one from the previous)
You
start as a young experimentalist
display
skills artists ten years your senior
wish they could have produced way back when
Lack
of colourisation
the
hues fading
squirrels
and cows colour blind
an artist
with a crazed brush
daubs
green grass purple
mixes
paints on the palette
to mess
up a work of art
Sells
his wares for a few thousand
enough
to buy another group of colours
the
splash blotches on canvass
as one
does when in the mood
the
new sketch adorned with bright orange.
The
Gardenia Grey art gallery hangs motifs
the
aftermath of several attempts at portraits
people
with funny glasses peruse
the oils
one
says that one will sell in the tens of thousands
your
popularity garner by people with weird tastes
the
lollypop dark moron on yellow sells best.
The
pathway to certain success follows no path
just
meanders as the market sees fit, glowing
the
reviews that mention your dexterous ability,
ten
thousand for a shoelace print the horror,
the
juices flow again, another batch of contemporaries
to flow
through to the art world, the mind numbingness
as more
follow, the brazen attitude that art mirrors life.
Me the Dreamer?
The
lady of the house
timid
as a mouse
forever
dainty
walking
quaintly.
She
managed her life
so I
made her my wife
as things
would have it
I would
have to shave yet.
She
made my day
doubly
joyous and gay
a baby
for both of us
comes
with love and trust.
Play
with the children
over
and over again
we dine
with our guests
spy
the sunset in the west.
Paid
the price of greed
did
something we neither need
met
another lover
now
she’s another mother.
So polygamist
I am
twice
the father half the man,
work
twice as hard now
sweep
the yard and pow!!
You
wake from the dream
with
a silent scream
you’d
made it all up
have
a coffee from a cup.
I see
the heat pour down my neck
and
a mark from a kiss peck
where
is the woman of my thoughts
like
all good things, come to nought.
For Heavens Sake – A Rant
Goddamit,
get a fucken grip
the
price of a new car is set in stone
refrigerators
priced to do a job
cheap
whores on the streets of Seville
meant
to do a service for men.
There’s
ten dollars in my wallet
there
always is, I like that way
yet
you moan when I give you a fifty,
your
sneer reminiscent of your mother,
please
put your book away, I know my place.
I saw
a car spewing carbon monoxide
a truck
coughing diesel, my bike pollution free,
and
travelling me to my destination, cough
there’s
a tunnel that holds fumes, cough, cough
the
train from the Deep South puffs coal dust.
my parents
died BUT I don’t fucken miss them
get
over it family, they died through age
stop
blaming everyone else for their death
Life’s
not like that, leastways the way I see it,
the
blast from the South signifies global cooling.
And
on that note, a scientist proclaims global warming
exists
as a natural way to end the species,
that
should surprise, but is there truth in it?
Margaret
Thatcher took a nation to war
just
because she thought England ruled the
world.
The Dollar Coin
Used
as currency in a marketplace
or as
payment for a lolly or two,
I ended
up in a homeless mans’ pocket
where
I rattled around with washers and nails
he spent
it one day, enough for a bottle
the
kind man behind the counter gave me back
now
I’m getting scratched and indented
as he
hopscotch’s down pathways, passed trees
the
tacky ticker of the stock market increased
the
same time my value decreased, a quarter now
my life
ended when he threw me down the path
and
some squirrel ran out and picked me up
now
I’m growing old in a cavity in a tree
roasting
my ass off for the new year to come.
The Farm
It’s
the days of the Cold War,
the
Iron Curtain
the
Bamboo Curtain
the
curtains in a spies home closed.
It’s
also a time of mistrust and trust
when
governments censor the public
simply
to avoid conflict and nay sayers,
the
Secret Intelligence Service busy.
It’s
a time when news is stilted
to detract
from the honest truth
the
papers left handling misbegotten news.
The
government stifles freedom of speech.
It’s
a time when Jesus is a comforter
the
church sanctuary from the craziness,
the
religious ready to stand up and cry
cry
for the people, cry for the land, cry for their lives.
It was
a time when moods shifted,
communism
dissevered, disarmed
when
curtains were opened, light came in
governments
now at the hands of the media.
The
war on terror raises, again, the stigma of a curtain
a Dust
Curtain, to capture Taliban, Sunni, Shia, Muslim
taste
of desert sands taints American papers,
media
all
tainted with the Government propaganda, to fight.
The
Saudi Oil Dollar paying for stability with US forces
some
call them the Saudi Mercenary Army, fighting
to keep
the peace in the region, to help stop terrorism
to help
the Oil Dollar stay sane, yet it rises, steeply.
It’s
now a time for distrust again, for nations to close borders
for
nations to stymie the press, the nation, the people
a time
when someone walking the streets doing their business
gets
racially abused just for their clothing, remember Red?
I danced.
She
made me smile
her
life mirrored
her
need to be with me
………………..I danced.
She
said yes to my question
we organised
the
time flew
and
…………...I danced.
We had
two children
both
angels delight
like
their mother
…………………I danced.
We separated
amicably
I still cherish our time
the
photo on the wall
…………………I dance.
A Rose by any other Nomenclature
A rose
can be an adulterous beast
ripping
and tearing parts asunder
the
drip of blood melodious tonight
a Goth
streaks black/white down a street.
Thorns
on a rudimentary blackberry hedge
sharpened
by nature to protect, to defend
the
yellow pollen-laden legs of a bee quiver,
the
skinheads hold their weekly meeting alone.
The
sunflower smiles golden yellow teeth
silver
sparrows at speed dart and flash
five
months of growth - an Oak cedes to autumn
The
National Front join the KKK for dinner at 6.
Violets
small and dainty, opulent in smell
broad
flower petals wide open to catch a look,
more
bees dabble in the daily pollen game,
Black
Power and the Mongrel Mob fight at Stacey’s.
Smell
the luxurious scents from the Lavender,
the
purple nodules each comprising an odour,
remnants
of Saturdays party at 42 still littering,
The
Stellenbosch Seminary celebrates Mass.
The
Ice Cream stand on 76th and 10 features,
the
painting that of a young artist plying his trade
children
run in/out of the frame, daubed with colour,
The
Mighty Midgets Softball team glow with a win.
The
rose that started all this dies and is picked,
thrown
on the disused dead flower pile by the gate,
there’s
a motive to all deranged meanderings,
I sell
the house and move to the desert.
The Empty Road
I look
out the window
see
the black tarmac
car
less for months now
the
food and necessaries provided by trucks
I look
out the window
see
the clouds and wind
an airway
empty of planes
the
practice poo pooed with no fuel
I look
out the window
the
steel tracks cold
trains
running twice a day
the
diesel shared between trucks and trains.
I look
out a window
see
the erosion of choice
since
fuel ran low
the
consequence of a planet that was greedy.
A Day at the Beach.
We left
St Dom’s, windy, cloudy, dreary,
travelled
over to the other side of the island
sunny,
calm, beautiful, and that was the beach
Packed
a picnic lunch, dined on the soft warm sand
van
load happy for the occasion, enjoying the scene,
walking
to the lighthouse high on the fossil reef.
The
wind started to whip up as we left, sand blowing
trip
back littered with toilet stops and a smoke break
the
return to drear complete with light showers.
Natural Ability
She
started out a goddess
finished
as God
she
ate broken glass
to help
solve problems
she
went to the toilet
twice
a day, such a bladder does
yes
she was human
but
to me she’s a pinnacle
she
melts molten rock
a hard
task if one cares to try
her
looks settle from Fonda
to a
pardoned Marilyn Munroe
her
babies ours
but
she has the right to call them hers
the
luncheon we just had
to remind
us we’re still able
Natural
ability flows
where
good parents swim.
I toss
ideas around
she
turns them into viable propositions.
Yes,
love rides many roads
as does
my favourite Harley.
The Seven Guilty Samurai.
Deepest
Japan, seventeenth century
the
Shikoda dance death wishes
the
Seven Samurai practice
with
seven dancing doilies.
The
prize, ten geisha each
to start
another dynasty
of fighting
and winning
and
playing daydream games.
I read
Shogun once
taught
me a lot about
Japanese
culture, the Emperor
the
samurai, the geisha
the
peasantry
a lone
European
welcomed.
Today,
the Ninja rule the samurai world
the
black Ghi, the flashing swords
twirling
stars
and
a pointing knife
(for
close action stuff)
Now
they permeate the business world
cutthroat
at every turn,
tough
as cutting swords
sharp
as flying stars
dangerous
as a weakening Yen.
Back
to the seventeenth century
the
valleys ringing out with killing
a failed
samurai falls on his sword
such
is the way of heraldry
the
way of the Samurai, clear.
Ten
geisha added to a successful harem.
Days when rain makes for a gloomy time.
In a
stadium, rugby being played
teams
run to and fro, saturated
players
displaying adept skill
as we
the spectators stand drenched.
The
wives at their Saturday Fair
crowds
milling, the throng beating
drizzle
puts off children playing,
profit
down as the wet continues.
Out
on the lake, rowers ply their trade
putting
muscle to oar, back to the rain
sweat
mingling as effort expended
days
when tedium is broken by hardship.
A timer
on a bench top oven chimes
seven
trays of cookies ready for family
a picnic
outside wrecked by precipitation,
Police
give up the chase at 230kph.
Diehard
supporters back their team
rain,
hail or snow, the flow back and forward
as each
team wrestles with a wet pill,
my mates
wife stands transfixed at the door.
A players
jersey is ripped asunder
another
player pulls it more, for effect
the
ground erupts in a roar, the rains gone,
the
referee calls time, we have won, just.
A happy
crowd wanders out to a full carpark,
find
their vehicles, the losers with head bowed,
trudge
wearily to the bar for a few quiets,
the
winners off home to a promised picnic.
Happy
Campers and a few Animals to boot.
Average,
the camping ground
bent
on trouble
catch
a cry
deer
footsteps rocket
everywhere
in the glen
foraging
grizzlies feast on
garbage
in cans
happy
campers shocked
individuals run
jump
the tables
killing
gnats on the way
lakeside
resorts scamper pests
making
for devil may care melee
no second
thoughts here
open
fires a danger to wildlife
play
a guitar chord for love
question
your part in relationships
round
faces glare past the fire
seven
large caribou saunter past
then
dive into the bush
undergrowth
crackling with their passing
verily
they wander home
way
away from human life
Xtreme
BMX on the portable TV
yawning,
another long day,
zzzzz’s
aplenty for happy campers.
Radiation Burns on Cheap Plants
Those
ovate orange trees
purple
a moose
with no horns
lady
Ten
Guitars singing
choir
Buses
passing yellow
cabs
silence
in an auditorium
game
over
child
with a smile
treasure
lady
bugs dying
erosion
a white
bicycle
racer
plastic
chairs on the porch
sticky
The
mind with no thoughts
distance
Republican
ministers
claptrap
Democratic
ministers
claptrap
Radiation
in the atmosphere
Hiroshima
Solve
the worlds problems
bomb
it
Save
the world from strife
dehumanise
Bury
the dead
gone.
Poppy Seeds
How
can such innocuous plants instill so much wastage the world over. The heroin
trade a sad legacy of the Western World, heck maybe even the Eastern World. The misery of addiction, the decay of life, the unwanted dead, all legacies of a small plant in East Asia.
Diecast
Ramrod belts out another rock song
the
chords juxtaposed to the screech of electric guitar
the
other band members high as kites
as they
go through their set,
the
poison in veins
creating
Death Metal,
the
groupies front row center
throwing
heads to and fro,
the
girl with the Rose tattoo
scantily
clad
swings
her head in melodic tempo.
Cocaine
spreads it’s evil wings out of Central America, bound for the markets of rock stadiums and street life in North America and other western territories. The insipid
plant that breeds misery and death, fucked up lives living fucked up life. The
dollar it earns going into illicit bank accounts.
Joe
Ramirez of Capital Investments
sniffs
another toke
his
daily habit worth $200
he functions
better, sharper
so he
thinks
not
that he thinks now
more
an automaton to self destruction
the
lights in the room flicker
or is
it his mind that bends
the
sound of commerce outside his door
enduring
the
sound of his sniffing
inaudible
bar the compulsory cough.
‘Hey
Man’, said Bob Marley, the king of Gunga and Rastafarian, the sweet scent
of Mary Jane as you toke back on another bullet. The sweet sensation of a moderate
high as you take it in deep and hold, to give full effect to the weed. It’s
often home grown so hard to police, but still idiots try their luck and get caught.
“Gonna
give you Kaya now
got
to give you kaya now
and
the rain is pouring.”
The
caravan is steady
if not
the inhabitants,
the
smell wafting out one open window
the
children wait their turn
big
brother holding back
in case
someone comes
paranoia,
the
smoke in the cabin enough
for
the little ones to get high,
this
is such a buzz he thinks
not
thinking he’s ruining fragile minds.
That’s
seven today she thinks. Seven Halcyon sleeping tablets. Not trying to get high, just trying to lose memories, before she loses her mind. The most she has taken in one day was twelve, and boy did that knock her out, slept for three days after. Her mind slips back to the rape (again) and the nonsensicalness of it all. Heck, he was her best friend, had been for years. Sure, they’d
both been on crack, but his animalistic attempt at love had killed her.
Pills
rule the world
as do
chemical companies
a pill
for this
a reason
for that
the
times when days passed
and
the pain lingered on
the
nights when high
was
better than nightmares
the
days when sleep hurt
those
seventy dollar shots
meant
to drown the pain.
Yes
the world is crazy,
and
not getting any better
maybe
it’s proportional to growth?
Trimaran’s and a Fair Wind
The
day lay lazily open with a scant nor’wester
the
boats of the small fleet head towards Charn
the
Trimaran “Whalesong” leads by a whisker.
The
wind as they head northward swings south,
intensifies
to a small gale, up spinnakers, blasting
speed
reaches twenty five knots as white horses dance.
Lady Wigram, the bowsprit of Whalesong, bows
the
indifference of swells and chop fighting each other,
the
super schooner Daybreak Lover, takes the lead.
The
single-hander’s are fighting with each other
seventeen
miles back now thanks to the big rigs
who
possess more sail area -the size of the smaller boats.
Around
Charn, one of those insignificant channel islets
drop
the spinnaker and rake open a fresh genoa,
head
pointed to the wind and swell, pushing for Roget’s.
The
smaller boats are starting to pull out, the wind is high,
the
Doctor on the Chase Boat administers to fallen sailors,
The
“Doctor” that is the Southerly wind increases again.
Whalesong
regains the lead, though another multihulled,
“Black Widow” dives noseward toward
the lead,
Whalesong
tightens it’s headsail and finds a few more knots.
Now
they round Roget’s, a lighthouse-topped Island
and
start the tacking duel back to the start line,
two
clear leaders, both fighting the wind, the sea, and each other.
Sails
dropped, engine run up, sails packed away below decks,
the
waves of appreciation to a gallant loser, and thanks
the
salt laden decks and sailors soon to be washed down.
The Dormouse cries.
Little
darling
how
sweet your tears
the
mouse in the house
the
men full of beers,
Hey
Little dumpling
how
cherished your love
the
days when ladies dance
and
sprinkle flowers from above.
Hey
there Petal
the
glowing flower you are,
displaying
shiny teeth
as you
drive your new car.
Omigosh gorgeous
your
legs they make me sweat
I run
after your fading body
you
run me into the deck.
Hey
my aging darling
your
love forever cherished
the
time we’ve shone and mingled
twice
she, doubly blessed.
African Animals
African animals loiter
bearing
young regularly
chasing
down prey
dancing
around the watering hole,
everyday
the same picture unwinds
frolicking
Antelope and Wildebeest
Gazelle
scampering to and fro,
Hippopotamus
wallow in muddy rivers
indicative of their portly weight.
Jack
Rabbits run from fast Cheetah
killing
machines – Lioness, Hyena
Leopard
high in tree ready to pounce.
Marmaduke
the former circus chimp
naked
in the savannah, inexperienced
often
seen tailing the Gorillas
past
the Congo jungles to Kilimanjaro
Queen
Baboons pick nits from younguns
runaway
Elephants scatter en masse
sauntering
with swinging trunk,
Tea
Ladies
Ululate
Victoria Falls
washes
water afresh,
Xylophones
of the Jungle Quartet
yammer
alongside
zealous
Zebra.
Foreign Tastes
I lick
a stamp,
a somewhat
onerous task
the
taste foreign to my recollection.
We sail
hard
the
boats jumping about,
“about”
the action of tacking again.
She
clips nails
the
long ones on her hands
her
record a somewhat envious one.
Children
dribble
the
mess ready for mothers
to wash
and hang on a line again.
The
day closes
sunset
bright red and orange,
the
chill wind of winter onset cools.
Red
Cod caught
the
barbeque fired up to hot
the
taste of fish wanton this time around.
The
Oak bends
under
the weight of winter snow
summer
acorns wind up in squirrel burrows.
Love
filters in
the
likes of hugs and cuddles
new
friends aren’t averse to the actions.
