How quickly we forget, exactly how it feels
To be the one, with nothing at all
So amazing, how fast, those memories steal
From a heart, which no longer crawls

When one knows of the emptiness
Has lived out the shame
How can they not recall being penniless
When mercy calls out their name

If you are the one who is crawling right now
Hold this time, close, in your heart
So you never forget, when you are better endowed
The shame which it can impart

When you are no longer crawling, stand up tall
Keep compassion instilled in your heart
So those memories will never steal away at all
From mercy, you will never part

With a golden dish in my right hand
I came to get my fill
Of honeysuckle pleasures
On hidden vines
There waiting for my tender touch
Sweetness I did find
Under the marble steps
Of my will

That old cunning devil flew right by me
My conscious saw him first
A shift of black
Lifting up in airy flight
Yet still I sought out my reward
Though his face I could see
My dish, would be filled
That night

I thought of waiting for my pleasure
Then in a lullaby I rehearsed
I convinced myself to reach out anyway
As I came to get my fill
Of all those hidden treasures
So I sang my song
And put my conscious
In reverse

With a golden dish in my right hand
A shift of black in my heart
I partook of those honeysuckle pleasures
Yet no sweetness did I find
In those hidden vines
When from my own will
I did depart

Filling and fading with a soft caress
My playmate by the deep
Our memories diminish into effervesce
Held upon the sands of time
They keep

We bind and softly lay them all along
Like small sparks of fire
Yet out of the mist they are burning strong
As our soul’s  
Deepest desires

The dusk of evening, breaks into light
Filling with a soft caress
Memories are found through clouds of night
In the surging foam
Of effervesce

Those sands of time will unbind the fires
My playmate by the deep
Found in our soul’s deepest desires
The smallest spark
Will keep

Misty moonlight falls on dancing waters
Shimmers as it plays
Lights the fall of a gauntlet’s challenge
Called the sunrise
Of the day

Straining beams of iridescence quietly appear
Changing in a glow
Accumulating dust from a starlight’s sphere
A brilliant sparkling
From long ago

A splash of velvet is the midnight sky
Cradling our moon
Softly singing the sweetest lullaby
Knowing the challenge
Is ending soon

Streaks of crimson, fiery red appear
Across the velveteen
The moonlight's dancing end is near
As the sun again
Is seen

Those breathings of the softest hours turn
On golden leaves that fall away
Your kisses upon my neck will still burn
When heaven’s stars meet
The light of day

Half-awake, I still stand a breath apart
Remembering a budding flower
Lovely angel wings flutter in my heart
Recalling those sweet
Love filled hours

Among the things moving the waves along
Are my tender visions of your hands
A gentle grace with moves so strong
My ebb and flow
At your command

A dove’s wings sweep across this flaming blush
Spreading like the rising sun
Upon a chest of happiness a burst of rush
Softly hints of an eternity
Of two becoming one

I’ve made a poetic century
Though my technique is not sound
Consider it a great victory
I’ve succeeded in HELLO POETRY ground

I am not a natural striker of the ball
Ran very hard for twos and singles
Batted with the defence of a great wall
Faced quite a few bouncers

I may lack Rangzeb’s  batting grace
My style may be awkward
And I am afraid of George’s lethal pace
My foot work is undoubtedly wayward

I am an instinctive player
Know not the subtleties of spin or pace
And dedicate this century to Denis Barter
I am happy to be in the batting race

I salute the wonderful audience
For watching my indecent play
With a lot of patience
This new year makes their lives so gay

Seven days ago I went to my coconut farm

And saw a fairy in her beautiful form

She was like a real dame

I followed her without any shame



I was bewitched by her teasing smile

And I set aside my reading file

I forgot my scholarship and wisdom for a while

And was fooled for her style



She led me to her unknown land

I caught her tender hand

We lay on the soft  sand

I thought she was a pure miss

And longed for her hot kiss

Our love game was very grand



I thought As if I were in heaven

With her I spent days seven

The last day I had a bad dream

A demon shook my left arm



I was in hospital bed

The doctor was testing my blood

My heart trembled like a swift flood

I paid the penalty for my fraud

I became very sad

Because I got the punishment from God

In the sky tonight hangs a perfect Half-Moon,
when I looked up above, I thought about you,
in your paint-stained clothes and all your artwork, too,
memories of our friendship flourished and bloomed.

With your hands so hearty and your talents unbound,
I saw close up how you artistry astounds,
I remembered our fights, disagreements and tears,
but we always remained close friends over the years.

I sure miss our talks about art over wine,
snacking on crackers and cheese every time,
yet the thing I treasure most about you, my friend,
is the respect and love that will never end.
___

See Nolan's toilet here:
http://www.addictedtowalls.com/contemporary-art-paintings/graffiti-tag-art/Duchamp-new-contemporary-art.html

See Nolan in his paint-stained clothes here:
http://www.addictedtowalls.com/contemporary-art-paintings/graffiti-tag-art/Graffiti-MSK-nolan-painting.html

See all the amazing artwork of Nolan Haan here:
http://www.addictedtowalls.com/
__
The "Half-Moon Inn" is the historic building/art gallery I lived in that Nolan had restored with the help of his partner-at-arms, Mitchell.

Read my blog story for all the exciting details and breath-taking photos of The Half Moon Inn and it's lush, tropical gardens!
http://dee-light-full.blogspot.com/

There are many different kinds of door.
Some open, some close;
some leave you standing
outside in the cold.

There are days in life
that move so slow
and days you wish
would never go.

There are moments,
truth be told,
when your heart opens
as she closes the door.

For an immature poet like me the rhyme
Becomes the greatest crime

I want to write a poem on a piece of soap
Or the greatness of the Italian Pope

I talk about the faithfulness of a pet dog
Or the great utility of a school bag

I can write a poem on a match stick
Since I feel, for poetry there is no yardstick

Mr George J Jerry thinks My poetry is rather Awkward
I can no longer go any forward

He feels my poetry is meant for un-schooled
I don’t think I am even a bit fooled

He opines my poems are mere mush
And I am making unnecessary fuss

In fact I am very much cooled
Because I think I am correctly ruled