So enjoy
Every moment
Of your life
Like butterflies
Above all  flowers
With the joy
Of the Sunshine

Is there anything
more divine than
something made by
human hands
Throughout generations
of honed skills
handed down
to family member
or apprentice
crafted to be passed on
only to become
possibly antiqued
The subtle care and
time involved with
impeccable technique...
no substitute for the
HAND CRAFTED.

.
In another world
I give smiles come down
From the constant sky,
My breath is sea spray,
My hair a net for you
And the butterfly is kin,
Not larger than me.

In another place
My name, forged with yours,
Set in light of stars,
Blasted about the heavens,
Playful as the otter in winter
And the mountains high,
So small among us.

In another dream
We wake about splendours
So grand, unruly rooks
Disappear before they judge
And all our days, rapt in love
In wove blankets of ocean
So warm because of us.

The poet's manuscripts
are preserved for posterity
with odd bits of his personal things
historical than literary
immortalized with passage of time
as his timeless work
perfumed in air conditioned staleness
letters sent and received
the mortal mind sending poems
desiring to be published
and outside on a falling winter day
in a dog's head
the crumbling desire
for a crumb of bread.

when i last met her
her ******* were bursting with seeds
her thighs plump as stems of plantain
and when in the December sun
she dried her hair behind the acacia
i dreamed of lying with her on the grass
drunk in the moaning song from her navel
till the evening drove us cold and old
and darkness stole her flesh from my eyes
and it's almost December again
as she walks with my hands in her
along the field after crop
just tugging my hand once to stop
delicately drawing from her breast
an Agfa snap of two unreal people
in the most unlikely place
looking awestruck into the lens
passing into the evening light
before leaving me halfway
of her cottage and a home.

Those marble plaques in the cemetery
hold no dead beneath them
yet in the rising mists of winter evenings
when night like loose dark pebbles
fall from the sky
can be heard hooves of trotting horses
from the rows of cold white stones
and on nights favored by moon
is visible cavalry in scarlet serge
with pith helmets and carbine rifles
piercing the terror paused wind
with cries of vengeance
mirthful in washing blood with blood
on the fields of Cawnpore
dissolving into marble white stones
steeped in the peace of moonlight.