It's just a ventilator shaft, he said, but they laughed as the floor fell away from his feet

and the Devil he knew, said to him, please take a pew,
the service begins at twelve.

We should not delve to deep into what made him weak,
but thank our own lucky stars that we weren't.

Mistakes can be costly and most mostly make them
the lessons if learned separate boys from the men.

His ugly business
of dissecting you
Keeping you in pieces
the cold fragments in his
odd little jars

what he likes best of you
is your flesh and bones
He is a cannibal with
a trampled heart

You should be eating him
and yet there are no others
but ourselves coming and going
into unison like a chest
heaving for the living air...

I’ll meet you in the meadow, among the wildflowers.
I’ll meet you on the mountaintop, at the break of dawn.
I’ll meet you by the fountain, where we will while away the hours;
I’ll greet you with a poem, I’ll greet you with a song.

I’ll meet you on the steps of the cathedral made of stone;
I’ll be wearing white and gold, and my hair will be braided.
We will walk toward the altar, where vows we will intone.
We would remember always, our love that never faded.

I’ll meet you in my visions, I’ll meet you in my dreams.
We live together always in my vivid memory.
We will never be apart in the essence of my psyche,
because although you died, you still live as part of me.

Proverbs are not always
prophecies, but, the flied
Piper of Malibu, destined
for a down at the Swansea,
tragically, not meant to be
Che Sala Sala, for N264DB.


RIP to all on board.
Condolences to Fs & Fs.

O sink not down in that corrosive couch,
Docile before the Orwellian screen
That regulates the lives of the servile,
Dictating dress and drink, demeanor, dreams;

Declare your independence from the sludge
Of vague obedientiaries who drowse
Away their empty lives in submission
To harsh, diagonal inches of rule

Poor weaklings chanting tainted tribal songs
In chorus hamsterable, huddled, heaped,
While costumed in their masters’ liveries,
And feeling little while thinking even less

The very model of the State’s non-men,
Predictable and dull, submissive ghosts
Crowded, herded in cosmic cattle chutes,
Reflected in dim, noisy nothingness

But you, O you, be not of them, but be
A wanderer in the moonlight, one known
To God, there in His holy solitude

A lady pen wrote of love in meter,
from on the Grecian isle and ancient time.
For womankind, was honey ever sweeter?
She was not condemned, when she made her rhyme
A lyricist words were made for singing,
Plato’s muse she inspires from long ago.
Her name now echoes as a bell ringing
A way of loving she has set aglow.
From that isle, she refined her own beat,
and thus her name remains as poem form.
Given pride too, as we measure the feet,
a genre of art brings critical storm.
No shame now, we will show our love and pride
in the life culture, we choose to reside.

©JG Farmer 2008

Gull

We've got 'em bang to rights, the noisy screamers
and harbingers of our oceanic discontent;
Jonathan Livingston, George Barker, Chekhov,
fish and chips, snatched sandwiches, a certain
stink of half-remembered, half-digested fish.

Forgetting how huge they are is one thing; worse
is forgetting how gull they are, how unlike
anything else in the many wild kingdoms we
pompously incline to regard as our home despite
the anarchy of mosquito, buzzard, lynx.

A white head endangered among rocks, scrabbling
claws spread to meet the gust, there is nothing
romantic about this unseasoned life, bare feed
and guano, profitless, enduring, cold
as midnight, we think, is cold; but always cold.

In moments we are gull, instances of dream,
flapping from the black precipice, swooning
in the down-draught, knowing no knowledge
except the squawking mouths,. the endless need
revealed for a second in cowl of black and grey.

My lover's eyes glow as the morning sun-
That peaks its head above the evergreens
And yet shine on as daylight comes undone
And still, persist within my nightly dreams.

My lover's hands are delicate as snow-
That twirls onto the fields without a sound
And every bit as graceful are her toes
That bear her lovely shape across the ground

My lover's lips are red as hungry fire
That dance across my skin with every kiss
And warm my chest with unrestrained desire
That leaves me in a breathless state of bliss

But when she speaks, her lips no longer pursed
All that her beauty’s done is soon reversed.