No need to say a word,
it's morning in the country,
leave the chirping for the birds.

Lay your precious head,
against my caring arm,
be silent now instead,
let me keep you safe from harm.

Each day I get to hear you,
speaking merrily to me,
I treasure all you say and do,
that lends a tender mystery.

So, take your words and tuck them,
deep inside your caring heart,
your eyes say everything they can,
and that's a wonderful way to start.

...sitting here
across from me again
(in my mind's wishful eye),
sipping coffee together,
light talk, some danish,
and an omelette, too
(i made it the way you like it,
just for you),
happy to be here
as the flaming
sunstreak rise lights up
the tender tips of the flowers
outside the window,
i fingertip-kiss your lips,
as the morning bird
breaks into song,
waking up the world,
whilst you and i
carry on
and your eyes
reflect the new day's skies,
it's nice, it's nice
to see you...

I spy,
the morning mist, outside
the window that is not mine,
rising from the river,
sunshine tries to sneak through a sliver,
I, with thoughts only
here and now
for thee,
you
my new and gentle mystery,
who came to me on a silver stream,
made subject for my pen,
my dreams,
and this misty morning,
where I wish to be,
across from you
smiling back at me.

Is this not what it's all about?
Waiting in the wings,
stretching, turning, churning,
anxious and adrenal,
living for the dream,
wishing for the dream,
being
the dream,
dancing on beams,
beneath the streams
of lights and fans,
arrayed like a bird
in tulle, crinoline, silk, satin and linen
white plumage,
acting only on command,
the music soft and flowing
their frail, slender figures
take to air,
arms and legs,
torsos tender,
slender necks,
wisps of downy hair,
melding colours,
sights and sounds,
the stage a pedestal of fate,
their beauty
captured
in gilded cages
for all to watch and see,
recaptured yet again,
by the artist on the easel'd window
of his canvas,
a maestro of sorts,
tapping his baton-brush,
coating the blankness with sweet
inspiration,
like angels heavenly
brought to earth,
serenaded by strings,
life from the blankness begins,
covers the void,
bejewels the mind's eye
and beckons the ballet
rehearsal to begin,
yet shall in oil paint now
and for all time
never cease to be...

"Art is not what you see, but what you make others see."
Edgar Degas

____
Inspired by the painting by Impressionist artist Edgar Degas,
The Rehearsal.
--to view the painting:
http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/degas/ballet/degas.rehearsal.jpg

the hardest part about
writing a poem about you
is that the words tend to
get into the way
of what i really want to
say to
you

"Cash, Grass or ***-No One Rides Free!"*
reads the bumper-sticker slapped on the ratty Harley.
Its black leather seat is cracked, tattered and torn,
the headlight is busted and there's no friggin' horn;
with mismatched saddlebags strapped to each side,
the panhead leaks like a sieve, but it's still quite a ride.

The gas-tank is dented, scratched and coated with muck,
the chrome no longer shines, but who gives a flyin' ****?
Its tires are bald, the spokes are all rusted to ****,
and the frame is off-kilter from a cage-driver'*****.

The biker just puffed the last hit from his pipe,
slammed down the rest of the J.D. from the bash last night;
then he hops on his hog, kicks the monster to start,
the muffler-pipes blast flames and roar like a ****.

Together they roll down the road like old pals,'
with nowhere to go, just obnoxious and loud:
the tombstone tail-light flashes bright red on this mess,
'though Cashless, Grassless and Assless, they couldn't care less!

Although the actual authenticity of this poem's authorship is questionable, Jack The Ripper was credited with sending various taunts in verse to the police during his killing spree. The following poem is especially creative and chilling...very akin to the style and sound of The Ripper's literary exchange with the authorities.
______

(Transcription)

Eight little ******, with no hope of heaven,
Gladstone may save one, then there'll be seven.
Seven little ****** beggin for a shilling,
One stays in Henage Court, then there's a killing.
Six little ******, glad to be alive,
One sidles up to Jack, then there are five.
Four and ***** rhyme aright,
So do three and me,
I'll set the town alight
Ere there are two.
Two little ******, shivering with fright,
Seek a cosy doorway in the middle of the night.
Jack's knife flashes, then there's but one,
And the last one's the ripest for Jack's idea of fun.

__

The letters of Jack The Ripper set to poetic formation. EPILOGUE. "for Jack's idea of fun."

__


With appreciation to Casebook: Jack The Ripper, the largest public repository of Ripper-related information.
http://www.casebook.org/ripperletters/

Give me another needle,
make sure it's good and sharp,
stick it deep into my arm,
in this very chilly room so dark.
Take the tape and puff of cotton,
cover up the ****** hole,
leave me then feeling forgotten,
beneath these blankets shivering cold.

Like lava shooting from the spout,
rolling down the mountainside,
engulfing me in raging tongues of flame,
nothing spared, no, nothing saved,
taking me away,
     taking me away-
just a little bit each and every day,
with molten high-tech tests.
and murky I.V. drips,
no more tears of real pain left,
just flames flames flames
along with medicated ether trips.

Big ****, The Head *******,
was the head of all the ******* in the ******* Shed.
What made Big **** so skilled and keen
at dickheadedness was to be seen.
Big **** had a certain ******* flair,
for tugging at everyone's short and curly hair.
He never had an important specialty,
except for being a type-A personality.
His skills were near to nothing great.
He kinda looked like a backward ape,
with a necktie 20 years gone out of style,
and his middle-management bullshitty wiles;
"I'm better than any ******* here!"
He'd proclaim everyday with a prickish sneer.
So they put him on his own cocky shelf,
where he could reign all by himself,
and every *******, ***** or *******-wanna-be,
would come to the ******* Shed just to see,
what they could achieve if they'd observe instead,
the ways and means of Big ****, The Head *******.
___
Dedicated to every single uptight, middle-management, pain in the ****
you have ever had to work with or for.

Exhale,
Inhale,
Exhale (let it all, all the lonliness go),
Inhale (and allow the lovingness to flow)
     breathe the romance
     in and out
let your entire being rejoice and shout,
"I'm in love!
Look and see!
I'm in love
and Love is in me!"

Inhale,
Exhale,
     breathe the romance.

Hold your breath and close your eyes,
wish and dream with me, then sigh,
take my hands to your smiling face,
feel my loving fingers trace,
the very essence of your being,
those softly kisses worth repeating,
that from now on and ever after this,
we shall live our lives in loving bliss.

Hum-D, Some-D,
sat alone on a wall,
Hum-D, Some-D,
had a very
hard fall,
and all the King's forces,
and all the Queen's friends
just couldn't paste, tape, glue, *****,
nail, seal, spackle, buckle,
bandage, bandaid, bubble-gum
or even sew,
D back together again
at all.