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The good wife has gone mad, the cows have gone dry.
The dog has up and died, and the cream has turned.
And now I can not find the new can of lye.
And even the gray cat seems to be concerned.
When the wee one came to help harvest the rye,
I thought him to be childlike, but soon I learned.

Though Celtic in his speech, from the Moors he came.
Dancing and playing, everything was a game.
My house guest brought nothing but trouble to me,
no fanciful friend, but a Pixie you see.

*Rispetto, ( Italian:: “respect,” )  a Tuscan folk verse form, a version of strambotto. The rispetto lyric, in its earliest rhyme scheme, has been usually abababccdd.
Harrogate, TN May 2013
you squeezed it from its little packet
onto your glazed doughnut  
mindlessly committing culinary blasphemy  
without a sound  
others did not notice  
until they saw the yellow remnants
on your red wax lips  
they said nothing  
for their rapt attention was on the boss  
who chattered on about grand ideas  
while you guiltlessly chewed and swallowed  
I missed nothing  
for your bold foray
into comestible “paradigm shifts”  
was of far more interest to me  
than the inflated business at hand    
like sweet custard on a Frito pie  
your mustard caught my eye  
and had me pondering
the elusive mysteries
of  mind and mouth
while others gazed at our leader’s clean moving lips  
untroubled by their enchantment
**on the significance of staff meetings in the world of grown ups
and then,
in a single second
all of this euphoric nonsense collapses gracefully into the twinkling light that ever so gently reveals the depth of the reality and the order in the complexity of all the wonders You have done,
for me.
and I am in love. More so than ever before.
I wonder* if he wonders about all the little things that make up me.
I wonder if he wonders about the sound of my voice when I sing, the look on my face when I sleep, and the twinkle that will spark in my eyes when he looks upon me.

I wonder if he wonders about the type of woman I will be.
I wonder if he wonders about the things that I value, the ones who are of importance in my eyes, and the ways that I love in a way entirely unique to me.  

I wonder if he wonders about the looks that hold the soul that is me.
I wonder if he wonders about the curve of my lips, the shape of my hands, the color of my iris, and the clothes I wear to dress the body to hold the soul that is me.

I wonder if he loves me,
Now, even before the concept of “us” has come to be.
I wonder if he wonders if I love him.
And I want him to know that I do.
And that I am waiting for him, the one who is waiting for me, and hoping for him, while hoping that he too hopes for me.
You pluck stars,
and hold them
in the palm of your hand:
shadow-birds are eating!

You mould suns,
and lift them
from the palms of your hands:
fire-birds are heaving!

You weave clouds,
and fold them
to the palms of your hands:
thunder-birds are beating . . .

You paint drops,
you blend them,
draw bows
and bend them
along the palms of your hands --

and I . . . ?
I love you, like Sky
30/04/2013
You make life so beautiful, my Love...Thank you...
when I was an ancient five    
I KNEW I was different
from all other creatures alive  
I did not know to ask the wise ones  
why?    
I could read their minds  
but I guess most men, barely three feet tall
are cursed with this skill  
so I watched and wondered  
and though I did not know how fish breathed  
I knew I was one, out of water  
my gills gasping  
as I walked this chunk of stone  
others seemed so at home,
not I,  
I would hide under the covers from the devil  
my sister said was real  
if they feared the same demons  
they, the infinitely normal,
did not let this be known  
so I watched and wondered
and counted their breaths  
(even then, I knew, they had a finite number until their deaths)  
and made a disturbing discovery--I did not breathe like they  
but faster than some, slower than others  
and when I tried to get in sync with them  
it would work for only a few inhalations  
and the “they” again somehow left me behind  
to breathe air, alone
when water was likely my truer home  
I can’t recall when I gave up the quest, to be like they  
they who all breathe in unison,  but I suspect  
it was on some summer day
in the dry world of a five year old stone walker  
who should never have left the deep blue sea
I first thought I was insane when I was five--I tried to determine why I was so different from other people and decided, with my childish logic, it was because all others breathed in unison, inhaling and exhaling at the same time--I tried to get in sync, but it was in vain
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