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 Jun 2013 Brian Sarfati
st64
1.
Twelve-eleven
Just past midday.

Lying on this bed alone
Looking through the window
Staring at clouds, bulbous
Promising all to youth.

May try to latch on one
Catch a dream, perchance
Floating on forever
Away from distress and pain.

I long for chances to prove myself
Can show and give so much
Plans and dream hatch
Eggs crack, hatch to realise the truth.


2.
Twelve-twelve
Just past midday.

Disappearing fast, wind shifts
Wispy threads are all that's left now
Dreams dissolving into the air
Less to touch on and fly away.

Some dreams are gained, others lost
New dreams now, comes with age
Hope replaces reckless mood
Settle in and eke all out.


3.
Twelve-thirteen
Just past midday.

Now sagacity abides in this ancient shell
But nobody hears the long-lost songs
Would believe such intense poems from the heart
All an echo away; endless now....into dreamy wisps.


hm....

S T, 31 May 2013
Written a while back, seems to fit pieces of this clockwork-melody.
Ain't clouds just...sooo beautiful, hm?
Wanted to make it 'midnight clouds', but then I thought...wait a minute, who the hell sees midnight clouds? lol
Ok, I do :)
Crazy, huh.



sub-entry:

'clock-work melody'

magenta flutters by, draped in gilt
stuck on your shoe.

from canal to canal, the traveler goes
seeking currents to the shore.

often, dreams can make you fly a bit
best to keep alive.

absolute truth larks in clockwork songs
melody of cottony swathes.

if you dare dream so hard enough
them visions will prevail.

hell-o!
Shift work nurse, where do you go?
Is it to another ward, to another wound,
that is in need of stitches to be sewn?

Potbellied tarmac man, where do you go?
You’ve left the stove frothing at the lid,
can your couple of quid not wait for lunch?

Gym, mother-of-one, where do you go?
Your son is sat still with a coffee,
whilst you’ve gone to buy another toffee, poppy seed, frothy beverage- surely that’s not fair, is it?

Big-Issue-seller-of-the-precinct, where do you go?
Your Yorkshire Terrier, alone in the South,
is terrified from the traffic, moist at the mouth.

Market stall second-hand book woman, where do you go?
Lines of used literature are waiting to be read,
why have you left them to help your hash-head son on his second come-down of the day?

Shift work nurse and potbellied tarmac man,
big issue seller and gym mother-of-one,
market stall second-hand book woman,
where do you all go?
From Coffeeshoppoems.com
Free poetry available for download!
my love is building a building
around you,a frail slippery
house,a strong fragile house
(beginning at the singular beginning

of your smile)a skilful uncouth
prison, a precise clumsy
prison(building thatandthis into Thus,
Around the reckless magic of your mouth)

my love is building a magic, a discrete
tower of magic and(as i guess)

when Farmer Death(whom fairies hate)shall

crumble the mouth-flower fleet
He’ll not my tower,
                        laborious, casual

where the surrounded smile
                                hangs

                                          breathless

— The End —