I thought I would write of love, love
But I faced a wall, a block
My quill stood still in time
While the clock went on tick tock
I thought I would write of passion
That makes one spin on toes
But my quill stayed quiet, still
It wouldn't spill or flow
I thought I would write of romance
With all the right beats in the groove
But my quill stopped mid air
It didn't want to write or move
So I lay my quill aside
And gave poetry a miss
I left the paper empty, love
And sealed it with a kiss

it belongs to three people i think,

or is that imagination.



anyway she says sometimes they have

birds of prey at the cathedral which

escape and **** the pigeons on their

roof. that is why although it is all

now exposed due to damp, it will be

enclosed.



blood drips.



sbm.

We're born with hopeful wonder
We're born with tempestuous emotion
We try not to get pulled under
But get swept up in devotion

We get older and chip away
Rust in the sinking water
Trying to hold onto Maye
Always unwillingly slaughter

We mutate to an object inhumane
Excuse it with "It's in our DNA"
Seems like we're all on *******
Have brain damage more every day

We **** each other left and right
Trying to cope and manage
Wrecked brain and no sight
We create collateral damage

So don't say "I'm only human"
Blaming everything except yourself
I think it's time you tune in
And take the book off the shelf

Your eyes are covered by your own hands
What is it you fear?
It's pathetic and sad
You can't see you are your own puppeteer

Everywhere I go
Everybody wants to know
"Where's the lady"
They all ask
I answer, hiding behind a mask
Of smiles and laughs,
And say to them:
"She's gone, she won't be back again;
I don't care"
And shrug my shoulders.
But now my life is so much colder
I walk alone, the crowded streets
And tell my tale to friends I meet
Then I turn, walk on with the truth
With tear-filled eyes
I think of you

I met the man by chance on that riverside town.

The only one around at the deserted strand
I asked him the shortest way out
after I had my fill of the river.

He told me about the fish market
where the fresh catches arrive every morn
and the place ten minutes farther north
where if I slowed down
could catch the magnificent spectacle
of the orange orb thirstily dipping in the river
and if I stayed back for the night
would surely go insane
when the moon sets the river on silver fire
but if I was really intent on leaving
a half hour's drive would get me the highway.

I was thinking of the amazing mathematical probability
of my traveling over three hours to see the river
and his traveling ten minutes on a bicycle
to fetch his son from school on that riverside town
for our once-a-lifetime meeting on the life's highway
and then having him a permanent visitor in my memory
at sunsets and moonrises over the river.

I coloured my world today
my hands smeared in pastels
canary yellows
ripe peaches and cardinal ochres
pink from a flamingo sunrise
a passionate cerise

Splashed
an array of feisty blues
a flamboyant turquoise
a topaz tango
a twinkling periwinkle

Streaked it with
beams of gold
contoured lilac smudges
lavender tipped edges
in custard pineapple floats

Splattered emeralds, toned pistachio
fern greens with swift finger strokes.

Tempered it with
muddy crusty earthy browns
rock coloured sandy mounds
reined in royal purple
the sensual blaze of a flaming sunset
the dark indigo of a gloaming sky
agate drops a few
a silver sliver of a crescent new

I coloured my world
with my eyes
my fingers, my hands
my hues
....just the way I wanted to

gulls cawed, so loud their calls
echoed off the cliffs behind us, a ghost flock answering,
though not shrill enough to rouse us

they flew crisscross patterns
and dove into the surf, but not one landed
on the carrion strewn across the sands

not like the vultures of my youth,
ravenous black hawks that began their devouring
at the first scent of death, or a moment before

no, these creatures merely called
to one another, a curious conversing
about the carnage below

perhaps their strange song
our dirge, as they swooped to and fro, wings
slicing currents carrying our souls

Omaha Beach, June 6, 1944