Night sky over Paris, doesn't speak starry love tonight
intimate soul, maker of my spirit's whole,
Paris would love to hold close to it's broad heart,
didn't we elope through the Metro tunnel
of experiences,then I made you wear my coat
to protect you from winter cold, hid you
in the cozy interior of my memory well lit,
where you wait on a hope, unsuspecting
losing all sense of time.Still at Arc de Triomphe ,
I  wait for the train that never comes, I suspect
you are a prisoner, in the urban jungle of La Defense
beyond the lonely whiteness of Grande Arche
time the marauder comes in without knocking,
he must have took you away, none will know when
the tunnel of our experiences, once we knew are bare
I'll be going alone soon in a dark train to nowhere
where are you, where are you, my voice chokes and fail

We cross a field
by the cottage
where I live
with my parents

the sun is warm
and the sky
a blue and white cloth
above our heads

it's Saturday
I have spent part
of the morning
up the farm

weighing milk
and cleaning out
cowsheds
Jane wants to show me

a small river
where there are fish
and now and then
unusual butterflies

can you fish there?
I ask
some do
but very few

she says
but it is good
to see them
swimming by

with their lovely colours
I look at her
as she relates the details
but I am not listening

so much to her words
as the music of her voice
and the brightness
of her dark eyes

her black hair
is drawn back
into a ponytail
and I am there

beside her
and I feel like
touching her hands
as she shows me

the size of the fish
but I don't just
sense her there
her being

the almost purity
of her
and butterflies float by
quite innocent

she says smiling
and now and then
if one is gentle
one can hold them

in the palms
of the hands
and just open up
enough to see

them there
opening and closing
their wings
like small bellows

I study her
her lips moving
the lips
opening and closing

like landed fish
and yet I had kissed
them before
but don't want

to just kiss
without her
knowing before hand
but how to ask

to kiss?
we cross about
three fields
I tell her

about my morning
at the farm
and the farm dog
a black mutt

who bit me
one morning
and show her
my scar on the arm

and she touches it
and her fingers
seem almost healing
and sends through

my whole body
an electric
buzzing feeling.

Tiny flame huddled close to fading wick,
A rag doll seized in the fist of a tempest.
Fading quick,
Wax molten in our grip.
Burning, viscous through trembling fingers it slips.
Knuckles crack like the fire in the hearth
Consuming logs uprooted from the earth
Giving birth to each ember on the mantle,
Dancing decay around subdued bowing candles.

Crying white tears upon the silent tables
The evening sneers at hush filled fables.
Horses bray in solemn stables
Dreaming of pastures new,
Wick snuffed out by daylights fingers
Flame made still by the morning dew.

I like the sound of the rain
washing away the silent day

And the lonely call
of a home-bound train

A mournful morning
kind of pain

....Give me the sound
of a blue bluejay

over the busy noise
that mocks my ways

I want to pack my bag
and fetch my dog

Whistle a tune
while we walk along...

Come on girl
It's starting to rain

I hear the sound
of the lonesome train

and the blue bluejay
calling my name

(Here's where yer sposed to whistle)

Hope was selling
dreams to the hermits
on the street.
Empty stars filled the carts
paying a price that was too
high.
In debt they left
and came back broke with
butterflies in their dusty pockets
and moon kissed smiles upon their frowns.

Aspiring the rocky dust of crushed stars,
feeling high, feeling new
shooting up, falling down-
A shower of meteors lighting up across the horizon.
Crashing the earth's crust,
addicts for another fix.

Dreamers stealing the stars,
tasting paradise for a little while.