Marion Carrion, she was a tease,
She really knew how to flirt,
Would shake her hips and her moving bits
That were hidden under her skirt.
She’d beckon me out to the hockey field
And raise her skirt to the knees,
Said I could look at her secret nook
For only a simple ‘Please.’

She had all a woman’s mysteries
Although she was only a girl,
And knew the power of her nether bits
Would put my mind in a whirl.
So she showed her thighs with her flashing eyes
And then would have shown me more,
While I would share with a candid air
That I knew what she had in store.

Out there on the side of the hockey field
In the shade of the only bush,
We’d hide behind, so my hand could find
Whatever would make her flush.
I thought that I was the favoured one
While playing about with her toys,
But then I found on the soccer ground
She was sharing with all of the boys.

That moment of disillusionment
I thought would have broken my heart,
But I was tough and had seen enough,
There were other girls in the park.
So I thank Marion Carrion now
For her retrospect revelation,
She taught me well on the road to hell
And saw to my education.

David Lewis Paget

Somebody bundled
it into a clock
and slung it up high on a wall,

with numbers
like bars between us,
where there had been nothing before;

before,
my days had come open,
open and endless like sky,

but boxed on the wall
there looked no room for all
of the rest of my lifetime and I.

i.

without words,
boy, caught up in the dark,
brown-eyed boy,

as night drifts,
dark in her clouds.

ii.

a tumbling
star,
leaden feet
sink to earth,

drowning stream...
poured from a water jug
a dark, crackling sky.  

iii.

night's thick opiates
glaze,

unmissable sky
sinks anchor-like.

iv.

slumber-heavy,
dreams carried to the stars,
lost time
stretching like a cat.

v.

boy, sleep sound tonight,
brown-eyed boy,

as night drifts
dark in her clouds.

I'll rise with the tempest,
Sail away upon violent seas,
Beyond the sight of mortal's eyes,
And delve into a novelty gem quest.

I'll rise with the tempest,
Drift away to the distant wild,
To the sheer edge of the world,
And seek to ever be held by thy breast.

I'll rise with the tempest,
Whisper a serenade upon streams of time,
Streaming yonder a golden clime,
Wishing it serenade's thee, Heaven's fairest.

I'll rise with the tempest,
Spread my wings past beyond the clouds,
Gather all effulgent yonder stars in crowds,
To guide me to alien shores where you nest-


   ©Kikodinho Alexandros**
             Jumeira, Dubai
        14th January 2017

What does infinite longing
sound like?
Where is the vault that holds
the seed corn of sadness?
And how can we mute our fear
when the barred owls in these
dank woods sob in perfect
sympathy
with the night?

Here
the tense oboes find their range
silence pervades their thoughts
the drum marks a beat
while the string section weaves
a hieroglyph of grief
and resignation.

This symphony is called
the song of the night
and night proves to be
full of whispered life
rustling leaves
and the courage to face it.

But night is not synonymous
with darkness.
Its ways and means
harmonize with the light
render half the whole
parcel our sleeping hours
into dreams
and fitful moments
beneath the staring moon.

In the morning
a plaintive bird song
stirs thought
brings the sun into the east
and wraps night's dreams into
a silk handkerchief
where dreams are tightly bound
and forgotten.