Green velvety moss blankets sharp edged stones ,
your feminine fancy awaits on the opposite shore with silken legs
befitting a supermodel in Paris .. A Van Gogh brushed smile ,
the eyes of a fawn , waterfall locks of hair baiting your deadly advance
across the crocodile ridden waters , like a wildebeest you splash and trounce the neck high , raging gauntlet , fighting for every breath of air
as you nervously reach the shore , graciously pulled from the river rapids by 'her lover' , the biggest man you've ever laid two eyes on ...

To  my  home  there  on  the  hilltop.
To  my  home  there  by  the  dale.
To  that  place  which  is  a  part  of  me.
One  day  I  know  I'll  sail.

I'll  step  off  the  ships  forever.
And  I'll  sail  no  more  the  seas..
When  I  answer  yet  the  sirens.
Of  my  homeland  calling  me.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK  2016.

You hurt me like you get paid to do so,
Like its the only thing you are good at, and you don't want to let go,
But hurt me more,
Because by now I know,
That its the only way to keep you with me
I am the moth that found love in the grip of fire,
Burning slowly
In you
Even if its for the shortest period of time,
I will be that extra spark in your light
When you are tired and dying,
When your beauty is flickering and fading,
When you are sad and lonely
And when you learn what love means,
I know you will remember me,
The lunatic who loved you endlessly
For this love will not die with my body
It will stay
In everything that makes you feel special in every way,
In the poems you could not throw away, because you knew they could not have been written for anyone else,
In the spaces that did not demand you to change
In everything that makes you, you
I will be there

You are a traveler of the South lands
brown, a leathered skin coyote
desert walker of the Sonoran sands
crafty, black magic witch
a shaman, lucid dreamer
Yaqui Indian spell weaver
of visions, of paintings in the sand
mixing colors, peyote flowers
red, the melting of the aloe bowers
dark blood, the blooming agave towers
thick with snakes, the fire and hiss
that burns black of sacaton grass
the quiver and flash of flying sparks
igniting night, time traveling to the stars.