Love me not
for any
grace
of beauty
in my shape
or face.

Love me not
by sight
of eye
love me
yet know not
for why.

Clamped down firmly
time is a stifler.

No win-win situation
for minds
here existing

yet living elsewhere.

To allay pining,
moments
keep to their turning.

Secure, love's binding
of hearts

when rutted
in time's unpliable
yearning.

Bitter-sweet the state
where existence
depends

on ticking of clocks
but

blest the find of sated
persistence.

Rubbled, a shore wet
with stony regret,
yet

lived greenly
hope still offers,
to love

intent on patience,

her best gift-listing
dear friend,
for those who have
waited.

Simply inestimable
joy

in the end.

A MORNING STORY.

She appears,
the Morning Princess,
decked in
dew-fresh, see-through
dress of
dappled grey net and
followed
by cloudy attendants.
Around her
blankets of night, now
folded away
show a starry-diamanté
blue petticoat
which she knows, though
patched
will still be attractive.
Dawn Lady,
now plays central-stage,
starts gliding
side-ways and bows to the
up-rising Sun
who strides into view and
smiles roundly
at her obvious comeliness.
He surrounds
her with ***** intentions,
drowns that
dappled laciness in huge
newly-found heat
and the two,
thirsty for copulation to
begin, dance
in showers of fated rain.
She blushes
before capitulation as
maids should
but Morning Princess
soon becomes
mated, crowned then
as Day-Queen,
and feeling quicken the
baby inside
who in due time will be
the next
Morning Princess, this
Lady sighs as
she shyly remembers.

Omens.

A twiggy brown deadness
Is tapping my window.
A flowerless wisteria
Waits sighing for Spring.
Small underskin budlets
Are ready for bursting.
Winter's end omens
Means greening draws near.
New underground movement
Starts wrapping the sightless.
White rootlets are marching
Towards their new year.
Spring's deadly invasion
Starts killing wind's eastness
Bloomless persuasion
Begins new petalling.
An underneath breathing
Sighs silent yet thirsty
For first taste of lifeblood
That Spring's "Hello" brings.

Light has a secret affair but not many discern
how much she yearns for love's bait.
Each dusk and dawn is where union, borne so
clandestinely on high becomes sated.

Light imperceptibly early lowers herself into
dark places to lie in Night's lair.
Begins then their mingle where tingles of first
passionate movement stir her.

Breathes then the flimsiest changes, kindling
flame of impending birth.
Leading her lover to dawn Light then devours
his forlorn role-reversal.
_ . . . . . _

Dusk finds her yielding again as Night tightens
his own tremulous hold.
She turns pink with desire to shoot colourful
stains into his inky folds.

Creeps then inside and around Light this bold
Night lit by need's lurid flair.
Filters then miracles of firey sunsets as Light,
in mating fades during pairing.

Twice every twenty four hours two lovers meet
in seeking amour and entwine.
Lightness of Night joins with Darkness of Light
to produce change by one dying.

Now November's uncovering
reveals slightly
embelished skin-tight holds
in pre-winter flirting
of untried ***** first kisses
from her bolder
more moisturised rosy-red
lips. November's call
nips boisterous early-morn
breath, cools
dawning, catches the depth
of petalled laggards
full with dry doze of surfeit
summering and
tho aslumber shows them
her potential,
November blows her own
wake-up call of
uncovered cold shoulder,
so essential to
lingerers, with a real zeal.
.

I Fabricate.

When life gets too much like
a wet blanket
I wake up
with excitement one day and
squeeze it all out.
I take a dull sky from my sight
and go fly
my own kite, then for relief I
become the
free romancer and proceed to
idealize.
Often I take a
a long trip to moon's edge with
someone I fancy,
and throwing care to the wind
I begin singing.
Life's cocoon with its cheerless
wool-gathering
can flatten most dreaming if it
is allowed.
So I go out on a spree to stir up
mythical whim
or make a wish for some inner
heart-music
to start my surprise mood-flight
into fantasy
which if got right should always
reveal life's
hidden stairway toward paradise.
I fabricate
dreams that might go unheeded
otherwise.
Utopia's myth at times becomes
too underrated,
I intend never to give up being
romantic for
clandestine ecstasy tastes much
better when
taken as wine from chimera's cup.