Oh Word,
whose language can be lily or rose,
rain, dewy cloud, scaly fish
or feathered bird,
whose music trumpets in morning
and plays out night,
orchestrates stars, speaks thunder
and sunshine.
Word, who composes lion, dolphin
or lively stoat,
inscribes wisdom in insect, gorilla
and mountain goat,
writes perfect signatures in each
atomic thing,
whose silent symphony mystifies
with symmetry.


Word, praise to thee who sang Self
into humanity
for looking we find in thy grammar
superb diversity.

I chased this evening
evening's fade in sunset clouds,
silver tin-foiled filigree
tied to grey-as-granite mountains.

Tinted skirts of hazy
daytime's late farewell lit night's
ballooning moon parade
displayed as fire on quiet shoreline.

Invasive scarlet-swathe
hued day's best forgotten noon
when darker stronghold's rain
rolled dust into cascades of gloom.

Drifted with waning sky's
azure came memory's beams,
pain-shot their spotlighting
shadows still haunting my dreams.

Yet I chased tonight
night's demons away by love's
recall when I saw brighter
his star winking at me from above.

Jewelled with
rainbow translucence roll
rain-bead *****
slowly down outer-windows.

Golden-globe
seed pearls, clear watery
glories slide
in uniformed lines, floorward.

Diamonds in
transit they shine and fire
sparkle from
each crystaline orb's inside.

Smallest gems,
if unnoticed, might seem
irrelevant,
joining the fall into sheen.

Caught however
by eyes with keen poetic
insight rain-drop
wonder bequeaths an ode.

For height, girth and spread
they said
there was never one like it.

Weighing a train-load with
oaken coat on
it took every seasonal gale.

but was never stirred.

Winter blasts groaning thru'
**** branches
tore down good fire-wood.

Sagely magnificent

it withstood many decades
of weather behaviour,
sheltered all feather and fur
for generations,
made lovers a hiding place

but now it's not there.

Yet I see a sapling has been
fighting for air
and some say a gone-tree's
ghostly presence
can urge spurts of growth
in its successor.

I sincerely hope this is so
for all who pass by
that one-time great oak
will have to sigh as
its memorable strength will

be mightily missed.

In the pit of the night though cold
is curtained and
fittingly covered is my yearning
for thee, vain
hope decides to unsleep and keep
me wide-eyed
til morning has for certain broken.
When laid low
by memory I find myself clinging
close to thy
pillow and think of that presence
its hollow holds.
At last a slow winning of pale over
grey as dawn's
rosy fingers bid me away, I go to
stay at my
window until tide is high, as this
time it may be
the one that is bringing thee safe
home again.

Oh Sleep,
you old weaver of unbeatable threads,
- - feeder of narcotic nectar - - - - - - baker
of heavy-grain sedative - - boatman who never
stops splashing oars - - - slumber-jack - - fakir
with magical wand - - you wide-eye lover bent
on seduction - - a fiend who woos then takes,
the so-called sooth-crooner - - - hill-a-bye friend
known as the sandman - - - an eye-salve agent,
maker of drowse-powder - - dope-peddler,
dream-chainer - you the drug-spirit - pale
ghost of ******-relaxation - - - - soft-breathed
jailer of wakeful night-ire - - - - the knave
who keeps dozers awake - - - Sleep the jester
whose counted sheep drives brave people crazy.

One summer evening as light spoke its last
and covered with gold
opening rose-buds, a blackbird's late song
wrung the still air in passion
from nowhere as neatly strung cascades of
notes coated the gloaming
with soul which struck my heart in passing.

Delighted by listening were my ears dulled
by too much busyness
to hear crystal clear scales piercing twilight
with symphony as in my
childhood's countryside quiet where I then
heard magic in birdsong
and first felt need to describe the beautiful.

An inspiring muse to me was he once, he of
sweet trill which pleasured
my nights by writing his liquid lullaby into
rhyme, now again reminds
me to feel strength in his message, resurrect
the freedom of pen and try
to express thru' word his recital of self-hood.

Oh if only I could.

We pair of home-comers

built from painful baggage a water-tight dream,

we painted an idyll of walled delight.

A bright corner where care could cover old scars.

Oh that happy hand-in-glove fit of regenerative
pleasure which we dared to admit

into the picture of autumnal love.

Such easy laughter sparked need to spend more
new-found treasure in glad togetherness.

Fresh as youth the stream we dug from aridity.

Your tenderness stoked heat
in forgotten feelings, blazed pathways to places
I had never been

and seared heaven into every greeting.

So gentle our mountain
of unleashed freedom that time gave us

chances to climb to new heights.

I thrived in sweet air of acceptability.

You re-sculpted sallow existence, blushed my
palid future, accessed the girl inside
and unfastened this

latched-up former conformist.

You let loose love's abandon and I did not refuse.

Beautiful man your breath
warmed every fold of compatible essence, toned
any slack in my short-sighted outlook
and de-misted

smeared myopic signals.

Duo-passion soon oiled and honed rarely used
adaptability so we could reach bliss.

Our joinings were something greater than flesh
and that better otherness I shall

always remember.

No ocean of parting can break devotion's deep
integrity and I know for certain

we shall meet again.

Oh unforgettable man
you stole into destiny, captured my soul

and now you hold it forever.

One long-ago warm afternoon
I rode past high fells then clad in rough bracken
under a sky of unbroken blue

and  cantered through canopies

of russet trees thrown over the roadside while
autumnal moor-land rose in
beautiful majesty shadowing wind and cloud

then halting I heard liquid laughter.

Where would streamlet pebbles
be found white as those at my dismounted feet
and could heathered summits
slumber through leaf-fall more peacefully

or lark-song appear so enchanting ?

I had heard it said that highland
air tasted of wine, flavoured with grass-scent
and drawing a lingering breath
as cool filled lungs I knew that made sense  

as I gulped in ether-sharp drafts.


So divine was the reverential quiet

on my enlightened face that I closed awed

eyes and in vibrations of silence

caught nature's presence as never before.

We, looking to "now"
..........................may see icy goodbyes.
Cold can scribe lonely,
...............................but for only a while.

The " now " has no
..........................special seasonal timing.
Winter sounds saddest
.........................when seen from behind.

Tho' drifts of bleak past
..........................still mist windowpanes,
Sun melts the quicker
.........................on frost written names.

Fine dawns ahead will
.............................break warmer before
Future birdsong begins
...........................and wings spring-soar.

Unsettled my sleep,
yet were I with thee
my night would be
bedded in luxury.

Uneasy my soul,
yet were I to hold
thee as mine own
would relief unfold.

Unrested my mind,
yet were I so thine
fate would prove kind
and we heaven find.

Oh Muse, bearer of wisdom, may your words
which traverse the globe
by verse affect attitudes, move objections,        
lash egos, rock divisions,  
reunite misunderstandings and by power of
digestion resurrect what
the populace thinks weak, kills and forgets.

May poetic energy slice through innumerable
rules, instil sympathy,    
drown separation, re-find buried faith within
faded friendships, appeal
for awareness to  remember hatred no more,
help those forget who,
prejudice-laden perceive many as enemies.

May powerful words smash inbuilt devisive
desire for retaliation,
create instead meant relationships, lasting
handshakes which re-shape
distance placed between hearts by age-old
spite as groundless pride
grows no happiness alongside bitter regret.
    
Oh Calliopé, never forgo scribes' minds for
evoking soul-felt change,        
poems pleading for world-wide review of
love's fallen portals  
re-invite  causes for unearthing a paradise      
in this war-riddled earth.
Peace needs minnions' pens, at the ready.

(With gratitude to poet G.M. Hopkins)

Praise for all variation,
that diversified play of colour and shape
which takes away sameness
and paints nature with sheer tessilation.
Hooray for the patchwork
of harlequin stripes in that mackerel sky
or those chequered blotches
embroidered on coats of every dalmatian.
Applause for the hues
shot through peacocks and each rainbow,
those pied streaks in ponies,
marbling of stone, the frets in wide bands
on speckled trout, braided
tattoos over the backs of zebras and tigers
flecked with a motely
collection of artistically peppered mosaics.
Smiles for tri-colours
in butterflies and piebald frogs just made
to reflect luminous wet.
For kaleidoscope difference let praise be
and for all crazed irridescence
seen in the glorious abundance of nature.

This time last year
when he was here
skies stayed bluer,
dawnings newer,
horizons clearer,
and distance nearer.
Clouds looked whiter,
sunset brighter,
dreams were sweeter,
night held no fear.
Life seemed exciting,
smiles spread wider,
sighs lost meaning,
tears disappeared.
Dark days grew fewer,
hope flowed truer,
dreams became deeper,
believing easier.
A future shone lighter,
love felt so right,
this time last year,
when he was here.

Ten buttercup summers ago
shy gilt strands spiraled above
dual attraction,
moments fanned friendship
into smoke of commitment and
passion strewed
petals on paths of romance.

Five lavender seasons past we
picked fragrant happiness when,
defences fallen,
meadows of floral nectar ended
aloneness and love
waltzed thru' former convention
without any regret.

Three hollyhock years gone
seeds birthing in tended hearts
took root then softened
and doubt fell to vows of total
at-oneness until, coffined
by onerous shattering shock
hope's dreams met ice and froze.

One mourning ago grief's cold
wilted heart's planted for pleasure
and brought death's scent
to love's beautiful garden, yet
faded now into memory
shades of our flowers still hold
those petals of specialness.

Great standing stones,
lichen pocked,
weather worn omens,
older than old,
fern spotted,
devotion holed,
wind bitten,
upright tho' time honed.

Granite flecked rocks,
holy pinnacles,
mossy grass knotted,
atop high hills,
or valley hidden,
sole history keepers
you alone know
ancient faith watchers,


so tell me your secrets.

Stars like sparks splutter to bed
as birds catch fire.
****-red lips of sultry sun kiss
mouldering night
and in dawn's shimmering light
greet lightening sky.
Throat of thrush flintily strikes
other minds as incite
to fly for edge of day's eye sets
alive morning's
explosions that electrify every
tongue in flight
while I, amazed, note the calls
of each feathered
awaker who knows time's sign
has arrived to feed
if for today chicks are to thrive.

After annual bustle of end's festival feasts
2016, sagging under repletion,
blinks crusty lids and remembers December.

The time for retiring infuses old heart-beats
with intention of losing as top rank yields
to immature youth pretentiously present.

As New Year's first birth-cry appears bristling
with fervour the white whiskered
Sage denies more twelve-monthly contracts.

Wisely de-throned a King's brisk move permits
sight of things not as yet seen, quickens
time's costly broom to sweep free any lost past.

So as stale dies back may the un-tried drench
every mind with opportune's freshest
for regrets bear naught to the weaving of new
.
Wishing dear friends that 2017 brings a scent
of real riches, gifting you peace, health
and moments of memorable happenings too.

With warm New-Year hugs to all - from Fay.

Oh Light, you travel so fast,
invisibly cladding
this planet in change which
nothing can hinder,
altering colourless night-hue
you, in an eye's flick
gilt sea's face, reveal distance,
you, more than that
touch land in filigree-silver,
melting black fingers
of mist netting dune's grass
and more than that,
your whispers to unfolding
flora in still-dark
corners make numberless
petals succumb
to your calls, sensuous fur
feels your warming
as feathery sleep blinks in
readiness to dawn's
breezy ruffles for morning
stirs wings, fins
stretch in watery beds and
more than that,
humanity worldwide yawns
at your warning
of lullaby's finish and shakes
off drowse to see
how labour for hours ahead,
can be a life-giving
force with daylight's ready
aid, more than that
each sunset aims to put end
to your daily
performance but not before
that glittering exit,
the show of best-rays taking
central stage after
which Oh Light, you sink
slowly back into
your secret abyss and wait,
for more than
unthinkable would be life's
disastrous lack
if your worthy entrance it's
cue ever missed,
and for this, every earthling
human or otherwise
relaxes while offering sighs
of meant thanks.
to Light and to its Creator.

New Depths.

Find the place where two seas meet,
stand on the edge of seen and unseen
and listen to Heaven speaking.

Love is too vast to describe in words,
look in the human mirror's universe
and discover new depths of person.

Real soul-beauty is empty of Self
but is filled with wonder's ecstasy.

Like flattened tin the shiny-faced sheet
of evening sea
buckles under a last languid breeze.

Wavelets slip free from liquid's neap-net
but height-less,
white tops become ****** back again.

Like metallic shush ebb-tide's lullaby
scrapes silence
from pebble-sand's continued sighs.

Gilded froth of night's low clouds touch
orb's drop as it
sinks into dusk's merciless clutches.

Like gossamer shroud mist covers light
and day recedes
'til dawn once more is ready to fight.

Here breaks another dawn
where light's breath still indrawn
enters new morning

Rays chase away stars, dies
the dark while smouldering sky
sees Ol' Sol rising.

Here edge of night persists
with early wet ****-red mists
which warming resists.

Light rejoices in day's birth
by a boisterous outburst
of language unheard.

Here at dawn's choice moment
of molten change explosive
chaos re-forms.

Once in a while
fold back that vanity of solo-dreams
and enter behind
the phantom where hangs concealed
a land of angelic
enchantment where spirited dancing
is made so attractive,
anticipate rapture in an advancement
toward fairy contact.

Seek Flora's cloud,
Queen of the Feys, she of fine stardust
dresses in smiles,
finest of ribbons perfumed with musk
light her prettiness
in spritely cascades, she of kiss- curls
bound up in brightness,
is there now and waits to be whirling
with you in delight.

Ask her to dance,
ethereal music embroiders her glance,
and as you unwind
earth-bound views unlock for fanciful
paths to entrancing
Togetherland that, angel-hued, sways
in gossamer-hold
of beckoning hands who yours favour
for a mystical duo.

Dancing with angels
is high on the list for poets who fancy
time spent with muses
so not to be missed is the first chance
to step on Fey's floor
and take her in dance as magic occurs
when bliss heightens
the urge to write and make of words
something delightful.

The wish of a painter or poet is to transport
spirit's emotion
by stopping in awe at night's
vaulted scene
and viewing grassland as more than green.

An alchemist with no interest in gold
takes up better investment,
finds a thermal to soar on fancy or some
updraught for imagination
to make jasper of sea, jade of dawn
and perceive jewels hiding in shape or form.

A seer catches the farside's face
and traces that world in sentence or paint,
chimeric in nature an artist
whose eye encounters rock gives it heart,
transforms by description the seen
as mundane to have mystic meaning,
adds soft to feather, colour to blur
and improves initial by depicting further.

It is said that fine art opens doors
to show extraordinary as but quite normal
for good poet or painter
ranks magic as foremost importance when
met with blank canvas

So much depends upon sky,
blue-mottled in fur muffs above
flooded fields awaiting dry
days that buffet thick winter mud
as it willfully clings
in hard lumps to all frozen ridges.
Spring's blow loosens clumps
to undo icy hold on shivering things.

So much relies upon wind,
pink-braided dawns fight cold's ache
as old nakedness withers
when warmth, in the wings, re-faces
bare twigs trembling nightly
by clothing in stages as buds open.  
Flora's warmth quietly          
dresses again what had lain frozen.

So much delights the seeing
eye as fresh life feels profound change
in new underneathness,
gripped-down grounded roots awaken
from sleep's hibernation,
while hunger for life drives movement.
As kind weather favours
much in nature depends on the sky.

Take one from a pair and trauma arises,
ocean buckles,
sunset ices,
waiting grows fists and memory sighs.

Take one from a duo and lost are smiles,
lonely ungloves,
solo resides,
life loses glitz and pleasure demises.

Take one from two and stress tightens
love uncouples,
oneness divides,
lips stay unkissed and pressure climbs.

Take one from other and spoil an item
parting troubles,
nothing revives,
grief's demand makes no compromises.

Pregnant with longing day's molten sky
displays first cloudlets skimming plains
and welcomes them into afternoon piles
of cotton-wool eiderdowns wet with rain.
Edging nearer they threaten to over-spill
drenching whatever is milling about and
waiting waterless at holes for their filling
of heavenly nectar as stomping, snorting
and squawking loudly, birds and animals
all faintly sway with great parching thirst.
This is the worst arid drought with relays
of rare newsworthy rain yet it can carry a
hope to each weak whining seared throat
as dust-scorched limbs move painfully to
view holes as edges between life or dying
of dehydration appear to grow broader by
every moment yet as jet cracks on horizon
nostrils flare and life in anticipation sighs.

Like a fish
in liquid my movement feels free
as I see our future being unaltered
I can taste possibility in each dawn
for love's immortality
I at last see.

Like a bee
rushing between sweet pollen sacks
on leaving a former grief constriction
I race to abandon my cell's addiction
after tasting abundance and shall
not turn back.

Like wax
softened near fire I, melting in thanks
remember the ties love burnt together,
days of perfection shall last forever
if the Heavens make nectar such
as we drank.

If through busyness there is no moment
to sit or stand
and look quietly at daffodils, spring will
have kissed its last,
summer's hot virility will have smothered
the countryside and still
not been wondered at by that too keen a
working-to-time keeper.
Months, if not looked at will rudely push
past each other
to attract attention and years may slip by
imperceptibly to
to disappear off the calendar into the past.

Clearly this calls
for deliberate action
by abandoning
chores, closing back
doors and
walking slowly into
morning's airy
feeling of fresh dew.


Sparing some moments to stop and just
stare will gift us
its own time-defying rewards by simply
enlarging joy
as it fills warmed hearts with lark-song.

If you think you saw
fair Queen Flora at work when you were out
walking and watched
her create hedgerow beauty, better not tell.

And if when you sat
in a woodland dell you caught the shadow of
fairy-queen Fey do not
go away feeling folk will believe you were not
just asleep and
dreaming of days when to you they were real
for humans who,
grown and work-overloaded will not lose face
by saying that fairies
exist or confess nature itself is assisted by the
ethereal people who
work for hours at night to open more flowers.

Oh yes, they smile
kindly when children spin fairyland tales and
stifle a chuckle as
youngsters talk about spells old minds do not
brook what life once
opened to those with an unconfused outlook,
toy teddies and dolls
could talk and witches flew broomsticks back
when knights and dragons
rode on clouds every night to battle for hands
of sleeping princesses,
everyday happenings were magical then but
things altered when
fancy's soft wings became crushed under the
banns put on speaking
of fairyland and beautiful Fey was cast away
to die with childhood
in the pile of discarded other-worldly beliefs.

Life must become realistic
and dreams are best forgotten as nonsense,
then hearts will harden
but poets refuse to abandon the child locked
inside so their eyes
still see what is to adults forbidden, romance
does not leave them so
prison doors never close on their imaginings,
kings go on living
in Camelot lands and maidens get rescued in
good time for love as
above every cloud there still sits silver lining.

There are grown-ups
who unlock their minds to see other realms
and child-like believe
but unless you are a poet if you catch an elf
unfurling red petals
from too tight a rose-bud or you see a fairy
painting blue on white
woodland bells, well, you had better not tell.

Voice of clear
melodious dalliance
comes trilling
this morning
from the throat
of blackbird's passing.

What distant
past ears ever heard
any better
composed medley
of unceasing ******
than from this ***** bird.

Filtering Spring
through bare boughs
as though now
was his own moment
the ****** rises as
loud crescendo bursts out.

Facing another
sun-full day the sound
wrings poetry from
feathered insistence and
cloudless his hope
of a mate being found.

Flying away
to some higher ground
he leaves me
feeling the song made
clear that "maleness"
would bring her around.

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.

Then rose the mighty cusp of the storm.

Jagged black edges overcame white
and clouds begat
dark gigantic height after height
as blue, frightened away,
dissolved into rivalling grey and rain
threatened its splatter.

Came the great clap then began Dancing.

Two forked arrows of garnet-fire-clash,
sky-wide flamenco
cavorted before me, a tree cracked as
it gasped in last breath
and echoed by more thunder-applause
I for dry ran homeward.

Four-walled protection inspired my pen.

Storm then began shaping all over again.

Only love can understand love.

Nothing more shallow can plumb
to the core and only deep
can call to the depths of another.

Whether we meet love's many needs
depends upon floods
we have been through ourselves.

If we have been living near to the
surface we cannot grasp
love's profound underneathness.

Feet merely planted on greenest of
ground will not be fitted
to lift others deep in quick-sand.

For only love understands love.

My Regeneration.

Take care fellow traveller
when walking with me.

Wayward from now is my new destiny.


This is no powder-puffed
genteel lass today.

No more the simple or simpering lady.


Regeneration opened
love's door to fresh air.

The former conformer is no longer there.


No scrap of convention
is found in my freedom.

Life is a better place to be, now I am me.

Resting here in between happenings, a moment in time
is all it will take.

The past collides with the present and leaves behind
a very small space.

When I want to breath in calmly again is when I climb
into this special place.

The seeding of any contentment lies in easier finding
ways to liberation.

I aim to be free from internal noise, released, for my
own sake to translate

this moment in time as all mine.

Obscene as war is, none must ever forget
that poppy-red
stands
for the human blood shed.

Remembered, the fallen who fought in a war,
the red poppy
reminds
what they thought it was for.

Observance with poppies, each one a life,
given for
freedom,
as the means to end strife.

Precious the poppy-red, needful the time
lest we,
forgetful,
miss their reason as prime.

When.

When time is my own
And no-one is making demands
While evening quiets my soul
I think of you then.

When I have moments
Which allow me two idle hands
To win some respite then wholly
I think of you then.

When sunset tucks folds
Into daylight and night takes stands
Between duty and leaves me alone
I think of you then.

When love sets me goals
I lower my sanity-anchor
And sink into hope's future mold
And think of you then.

When dreams are unrolled
And dark hours are at my command
I strip off decorum boldly
To think of you then.

Desirable.

Treasure comes sometimes excitement-boxed,
appealingly likeable, intriguingly
closed within secretive flame.

Yet to become more valuable it has to be locked
with an willing and amatory key by
a known and desirable name.

A stir of old fragrance has to arise when opened,
an erotogenic scent of endearment
meant for just two.

If a billet-doux has the allurement I had hoped
for, arrives via ether-line, carefully
discreet, I know it's from you.

A yearn of a day in same whitened blueness.

A turn of a mood as sun lightens sea's edge.

A reach of a hope that long distance reduces.

A beseech of a heartfelt once-given pledge.


A dream of a time so right for togetherness.

A need of an end to this waiting's lone song.

A count of a soul-beat one other is sensing.

A doubt of a fate seen as slow for too long.