Images float in-front of your eyes.
Your hair flies in the wind, almost wild.
You struggle with your skirt a little bit,
Feeling glad that you wore shorts underneath.
The wind can be heard even over the
Honking of the cars, as it carries some
Stray, withered leaves.
The sky has darkened and you can smell the
Freshness of grass over the smoke and
Stink of ******* dumps in the open.
The crows start flapping around in
Choreographed committee and start cawing
About the latest weather changes.
It somehow doesn't surprise me that this
Reminds you of countless others you
Might know.
The crows ruffle their feathers and
Take shelter in predefined places.
It is another rainy day amongst
Billions of others that have occurred.
To state the obvious, you have too
Much time in your hands if you begin
Describing another rainy day.

Without you I have no inspiration
You've always been my muse
But I guess without you, I've not much to go on for
You took the most vibrant, lovely pigments
And escorted my brushes to paint the most random of strokes on my enormous white canvas
Movements were rash and irratic but in the end it was the most beautiful thing I've seen
...second most beautiful.
But something had caught my eye
I had seen a work of art like this before
It was too familiar; I'd seen you paint a while ago
I misjudged your manipulation of my hands for guidance
Sadly this was all in your plan
To show me a symbol of your love
When it was much less than tangible

                       But every night, before I fall to sleep, I stare at the beautiful colors you turned my world
                                                           ­  And the light brush strokes are all but a reminder

“Is this what we’ll be like in twenty years?”

A hint of sarcastic laughter sneaks through
your voice as you mock our Saturday night
of quiet conversation
over brimming cups of tea.
The secondhand table wobbles a little,
and the spots that last year’s tenants left
on the carpet match the breakfast
still stuck to the tablecloth
(at least there’s now a tablecloth).
The dishwasher hums between discussions
of the fall of man and the filioque,
a feather of steam curling up around
your face, like sweet sticky incense prayed up to heaven
on the tail of a tenor’s vibrato.

“I hope so.”

Should I let you in,
Should I let love, win?
My whole wide world, is brought to a stop,
Then my heart spins and twirls, when I feel so high atop
Of this world as a mountain, where my dreams are like fountains,
Which pour out these rivers, and chill spines with shivers.

I should let this win,
I will let you in.
I'll jump upon the feeling express,
And race to explain with abrupt finesse,
Just how you do. Just what you do,
to show me that the word is true.

Show me what lies so deep within,
What joins two together to create our kin.
Believe in me with the same trust
Of those whom you love but do not lust,
Just tell me how you feel today,
and promise me it won't go away.

I know that in my heart you will forever stay,
I knew from the start, without any delay,
How you make me love you
Like a well written screenplay,
Or the wheels of cars, on an open freeway.
You make me love you, and I will tell you, someday.

The teapot whines.
It has done its job, water now
struggling to escape,
a few lucky molecules joining air-born brethren–
and now it begs for the release
of its agitated contents.

And I am thirsty.

The fire dies.
With a turn of my wrist, the burner
is granted repose,
the contented sigh of the *** speaking for the pair–
happy to be of use
but eager to relax.

And I am ready.

The teabag waits.
Its tail hanging free, it slouches
lazily against ceramic,
the bag of herbs finding home in a mug–
ready for the heat
and its life's fulfillment.

And I am pouring.

The water steeps.
As steam swirls the mug, herbs
release their subtlety,
earth and fruit and the lethargy of chamomile–
a bath of comfort,
the smell of memory.

And I am calmed.

As the spider-like arms clatter across
and the rounded keys are depressed with learned accuracy
a rhythm is spoken of the old, rightful ways
through the surrounding din of modernity.

He never called it love,
but I held his world in my hand.
How strong he felt we never spoke of.

A pedestal he had me sit, high above,
to look upon his heart, his sacred land.
He never called it love.

It seemed we fit, our hearts, like a glove.
Reciprocation was too much to demand.
How strong he felt we never spoke of.

Persuaded was the heart, gentle shove
to a feeling not willing to expand.
He never called it love.

Up on a pedestal, so high above,
wind blew feelings away like sand.
How strong he felt we never spoke of.

Losing him I never thought of.
Eternity was pictured and
he never called it love.
How strong he felt we never spoke of.

I wonder how
God feels looking down at us
Knowing none of us can be like him
Knowing he will never be like us

I think he must have been so sad
Sitting there for so long in the dark
With just the whispers in silence to keep him company

So he threw us from the dirt
And created joy, smiles, warmth, and love
So he could see what it was like to be happy
But created sorrow, bitterness, fear, and frustration
So we could feel what it was to be like him

He looked down with a smile
And tears began to fall
And he wept like thunder
As he thought about his life’s biggest mystery

*How could I feel so alone?

Stimulated by Neva's lovely verse "Layers of Faces"

Phasing from the pockmarked scowl
Of urchin from  the pauper's keep,
To fresh complexioned beauty
As she prepares herself for sleep.
Plunging to absurd
Amidst a paroxysm of mirth
With heaving breath and yellow teeth
Atop substantial girth.
A vacancy of shock
Within two eyes of palest blue
Who witnessed a young fledgling killed
By the cat who lives with you.
Dribbles from a masticating jaw
begin to dry
And a sudden bark of anger
causes feeding birds to fly.
A smile as warm as sunshine
Brings the pherimones to bear
And the young and the beautiful
Both magnetically stare.
There's a fan dance of faces
Stretched across the prosaic
And the layers within layers
Etch it all a rich mosaic.


Marshalg
Victoria Park Tunnel
22 February 2011

the brand new baby shoes loose on the wire
electrical hot passionate desire
many a nights i sleep with visions
visions haunting yet pure
i want her to be next to me in the morning
her beautiful wings can never be clipped
passion to the highest levels can not match any amount of learning
as the spider weaves it's web beware not to be caught alone
always something with the mind or body to confound the lonely
always reaching for her whispers and never learning
the time piece has broken and the dream is lost
with happiness and a little white ship
i sail to the peaceful shore
capital judgments and aches and pains
leave me hanging the noose as the chain
so i give in to wisdom and purity
the road is full of traffic and obstacles
this land is ours today
so come with me let's dance and play