Somewhere along the way
I picked up a heavy load
of dead wood, a couple of degrees
east of East Tennessee,
a few bottles uncorked,
problem women, and another
woman, a child, and a mortgage,
all while I wandered down the left fork
of the wrong road like the red silt
in a river that has forgotten
its source, but enjoying the scenery,
the journey, and, of course,
the paths I tended to leave
through the high weeds where I lost
myself and my footprints so loud
I could hear them before I left them
on the ground behind me
like hollow dreams trampled down
beneath the feet that I follow.

old school hat.

panama.

no cigars, no canal.

velour in winter.

sbm.

Bits of me settle on every surface
I can look back in time
run my finger through my skin
leave graffiti in my wake.

Suddenly  gone  very  quiet  here.
Main  tourists  now  long  gone.

Birds  and  animals  quiet  too.
No  morning  chorus.

Weather  stagnant, mainly  cloudy, no  wind.
And  surprisingly  no  sign  of  rain.

Trees  are  beautiful  though.
Leaves  of  rich  reds,  browns,  and  golds.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.



,

Through the Truffle Umptty trees, cute truffleumps run free.
The smallest local children come along to see, if they can glimpse the truffleumps , go swinging through the truffle trees.
The Truffleumps eat donuts.
They love them so, you see.
The man in the bakery shop.
He makes quite a few.
Some are pink and others blue.
Sometimes, he does green ones.
Other times they're red.
He serves them up with ice cream that is really, really cold.
The baker gets his bassoon out, to tell the truffleumps.
Their donut tea is done.
He hangs them on the Truffleumpty trees.
He doesn't hang them high.
As everybody knows, that truffleumps can't fly.
It's great to capture fresh donuts, as soon as they've been hung.
They're always tasty tea time treats.
Before they go to bed
Everyday at five o clock.
The Trufflelumps get down from their trees.
Waiting for the donuts, which soon will be their tea
They carry wicker baskets, to take their tea away.
Their trufflemummies watch them, as they go collect their tea.
As all good mummies know, it's not safe climbing trees, even if they're bouncing through the branches of their favourite wood.
Happily hunting donuts in the Truffle Umptty trees is really very good.
(c)LIVVI

So far the story goes
Miss Place keeps everyone on their toes.

For her finding things is not an easy thing
Most of her possessions invariably go missing
Nowhere to be found are objects of her use
And the ones she blames find some excuse
That she is unmindful and blatantly unfair
Her missing comb is there only in her hair
To her desperate hunt for an important file
She's told she's sitting on it all the while
When she lost an earring and was sulking morose
It so happened they said she wore it on her nose
She wonders why her family should at all blame her
If her car keys are found in the dickey of her car
and why on earth should the blame be all hers
when her money is in a book and not in her purse.

Miss Place thinks she knows the reason for such mess
others' gross negligence in putting things in place.

The fiery wind burns our skin
this simmering summer noon
but our resolve is not paper thin.

the river is all ours
I tell her
and she whispers love notes.

When we retreat under the banyan
she scans the grey for clouds
and I her eyes for a mystic hint.

how lovely it would be
if it rains now
she says.

it would
I swear by the river.

We walk away
dreaming good crop
swaying in the river wind.

On the other side
of perfect
between the golden
silky lines
is the mirrored world
we live in
where ties
don't always
            fully bind
they unravel
at the seams
get frayed
so rough and broken
as the blood and sweat
and screams
replace the words
of love unspoken
and we all have
a place for fake
for presentation,
a kind of lie
but the truth
snaps us awake
as we choose to live
or perhaps to die
Yes, some of us
might disintegrate
in the wake of
destruction's wrath
not seeing for the
      blindness
that pain causes
on the path
for we forget
             that light
inside us
in our darkest
stings of wounds
we forget how
           high voltage wavelengths
reside within
the numbness
that consumes
and once reflection
melts the glass
and throws self-hate
into the fire
this is the hour
of miracles
of faintest stains
that take us higher
our deepest inner
whispers
that roll discreetly
through our veins
rumbling humbly
between heartbeats
that push the
bloodflow pumping,
igniting sparks
inside our brains
and whilst my heart
is battle-shattered
it quickens up in pace
as I electrify myself
and to the heavens
                turn my face
let the wild sunset
bathe my soul in
shades of shocking blue
for after every
combat encounter
I rise again
              anew