how the words might
at once catch the just right sound
or the rhythm of the right word
and go off on their
way

or resound in your ear your mind
and not mean anything
or find an ear in a pauper
or a paper bag
a

right proper and profound
time the right time the right
now the
almost forsaken
day

then again, if you listen,
correctly, have the heartbeat in mind,
the earths time beats
in memory and
the

last days and last means and
what is inside
what wells up
when you but listen

might be a faint
crackle a shy breath
a tree limb bending a leaf
you hear

or the faintest
heartbeat

as karma the consequence
of reborn intentions
and the future

and so as one perceives
desires lives
will be a destiny

are we too old
to be reborn
the answers remain

mystery
sacrifice
the
biggest deed

recycle those
whose greed
is the driving force

and those who seek
spiritual
knowledge

go into the
forest

I talked about you
like you shaped mountains
as if you had the power to reconstruct
centuries of settled sediment
into something I would lose my breath trying to climb
I spoke about you,
I swore you put the stars in the sky
just for me
but took them as my eyes adjusted to the dark
and I could finally see.
I talked about you
like you were the milk in my morning tea:
just enough to keep it warm
but not hot enough to burn me,
as if you never hurt me,
it's funny.
how I talked about you
like you would move mountains for me,
or build me a galaxy.
I used to love tea,
and now I drink coffee.

It's  blistering  hot  here  today.
Not  at  all  like  the  British
Lake  District.
I  have  borrowed  a  fan
from  the  lady  next  door.
To  try  and  cool  off.
I  don't  know  how  long
this  weather  will  last.
Perhaps  it  will  end
In  thunder  storms.


Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Red gold stroking strings
of Terra-cotta tocsin,
bounced a check today
and we wonder
will she rot in her cups?
How might we drink
all these donuts...
as a finger stirs the air,
her drum roll eyes...
time became tree limbs
of propaganda.

Why.

Cloud kissed
by hills
hemmed in
by patchwork stone,
a providence in Perugia
her cobalt dreams
strum gypsy wings
where
yellow fringed faces
follow the sun,
an itinerant balloon
tints the grass fucshia
then drifts away
to kiss the sky.