Rain in all its forms
From little showers
To thunderstorms
Is always certain
To water flowers
But also soak
The human race
Who don’t want
To do the backstroke
To their place
So come on heavens
Don’t always open
Be nice sometimes
It really works
Because we aren’t all
Like ducks.
Jun 19, 2016
Jun 19, 2016 at 9:43 PM UTC
She lies in bed her back to me, her sinuous curves exposed, like Stradivarius violin,
her flesh is marble statue, blue veined her skin.
Michelangelo in all his glorious moods, could not begin to sculpt a woman's figure
more lovely than these contours, the radiant dawn glows over her.
Shaped perfectly in early morning light, classical beauty for me alone to view,
she stirs, and moves, letting rosy hue in perfect harmony, her body to imbue.
Familiar face with timeless loveliness, lies in carefree sleep, her lip a curl of sheer delight,
her features gradually resolve, dissolving last vestiges of night.
My Creator, I can only state that there is nothing more wondrous in nature, or the Abyss,
than the female form, when observed like this.
Precious moments I lie watching, the beginnings of the day,
and then she turns, awakening, and I, still admiring her gracefulness,
give thanks for her making
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 4:15 PM UTC
Digeridoos are back in stock
Said the notice in the bric-a-brac shop
Are the West of Scotland Numpties
On their own Dreamtime quest?
Are they contemplating their navels
Through the holes in their stringvest?
Could they realize their chip-papers
Hold the answer to their havers
And the Buckfast in the Hand gripped
Tight is causing calluses in the brain.
Corks dangling from their hats
Swinging like disorientated bats
In ryhthm to the dance of delirious tremor
The adrenaline is pumping.
Mossies no, but midgies, aye,
A stark contrast to the Kappa motifs;
Are the natives going walkabout,
In the local run-down mall?
Calling everyone mate,
In an accent you love to hate
Walkabout, lost in the wilderness
Wandering through the bush.
Outback here there ain’t no
Crocodiles, only quilted, padded cells.
Hand to wall a red imprint,
Not paint, my boy, but blood.
This lot would embarrass any Aborigine
Because they havnae got
An original thought.
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 5:56 AM UTC
Default Setting
I have changed my default setting
To be impervious to love
But the problem that I have
Is that love fits like a glove
It feels like second skin
Underneath my own
But the more I rub it off
Is the more it is at home
I’ve tried Jif and Brillo pads
Rubbed till I’m really sore
But no matter how I try
Love comes back for more
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 1:43 PM UTC
Female Conversations
She talks in stacatto, stenographical bent
Flowing along without pause
Her mind flits from one thought to another
Avian style in a birdlike frame of ideas
Rapier fast in her intent
Before I can tune into her words
The subject’s changed again
Lost in the progress of the process
I frown in puzzlement
But she’s moved on
And when I finally comprehend
She speaks of something different
And now I’m totally lost
But laugh at her commitment
A lateral thinker to the last
I feel as if I’m drowning in
The ocean of her mind
But she is swimming fast to shore
She’s left me far behind
May 19, 2016
May 19, 2016 at 4:43 PM UTC