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It was too late
to realize this:
all along her boat
was circling
the island of
expectations.
She cuts the knot
at one stroke
and feels free
from the albatross
around her neck
at long last;
her boat like a
unbound horse
gallops into unknown
currents, in love with
deeper sea secrets...
Autumn robins hop spritely in Sycamore trees
With gingerly voices , with musical tributes
just for me
Choruses of carry on , carry softly , carry me back , carry
me home heard in the breeze
Sing blue for love lost , yellow for childhood
summer , crimson for the coming dusk , violet
for the wildflowers that edge hill country thick pine forest
Chre , chree , cha -chreet
Swee , swee , cha -roo
Perform colors of the bounty of spring , of afternoon sunbeams , of boysenberries and roadside streams
Sing polyphonies of winter , snowcapped hedgerows and holiday dreams
Copyright December 12 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
We were together
Staring out at the black sea;
A void in some backwater alley
Of central Bangkok.

You were laughing at its beauty
And like the stars I stared blankly,
Looking for everything I could not see.

Alternating undercurrent
Of raw sewage and street-food spice,
Alive in the shadow
Of a searing neon skyline,
The moon made of bone;
We blacken our lungs
Six thousand miles from home.

Set in greed for *** and company,
The familiar lilt of Latin tongues.
In a dream I still need to breathe,
Still need to feel the heat of love
Or at least the touch of anyone.

I lean, habit-ridden
Over the railings of misspelled lovers
That carved their names half-drunk
With hotel keys
Into the dandelion paint,
That with gradual loss,
Succumbs to the traffic
And falls in the breeze.

You wept at the sentiment.
I baulked in their loss.
I drew you in closer
To keep hold of this dream,
Before the night fades,
Before time has forgot,

Before life pulls us apart,
Before love loosens its knot.
C
She lifted me, a feather glided down
from somewhere,lying on the sand,orphaned,
for eons that coiled like a serpent,to escape cold.
She made me feel as the warm part of her wing,
beating in unison,jubilantly on an onward  journey,
to luminous eternity...your abode,in timeless bliss,
that appears in my every single dream...so near!
Hear the following prayer
in the timbre of gratitude:

I've had enough with all the bags
in which I carry my things,
with bright screens that sting my eyes,
and with the musical strings.

My ears are sore from the machines
that change and amplify the waves;
so bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of saints.

Whisper the wisdom of years gone by,
of life spilled out in the streets.
My heart is weary, the weight of this world
has brought me to my knees.

There's only one thing I ask
for which to dull the pain;
bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of the saints.
A prayer requesting the death of my Christmastime materialism.
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