deftly I wrang them
my own two hands to best an adversary
I fought for years that was way bigger
more strategic then me but,
had one weakness, it was inside me,
and so I put those hands together
and crafted wisely a way to wring out ***** laundry,
twist the bad's arm
snap the chicken's neck, yes,

it does flop around a bit refusing to die,
in death throes it jumps to the fence down it around headless, no sense in that, but,
things,
even addictions refuse to die.
The poverty of a country existence
helped. Unless I wanted to sling **** there was really little work.
And the economic driver here is corn fields and **** heads the rich farmers have grown.
I don't get into staying awake walking up and down the street for weeks looking like death with his baggy eyes sans the scythe.
Hearing machine gun fire in my ears.

I used myself to get high. My hidden weaknesses. A hit of crack and a beer some ***** had me hiding from it.
I got away. Now with these hands, I am going to make a life for someone I want to spend the rest of my life loving.
I will with these hands build us a castle a small piece of paradise.
Our own heaven on earth.
And there, I will, with these hands hold and protect her and love her forever. In our small castle, that with these two hands, built.

The cloth bazaar was quietly breathing rest.

I was scanning rows of hangers for summer shorts
picking up here and there
dresses without skeletons
smiling in the revelation
why skeletons don't need shorts.

I found a poem in one of those hangers
**** with no words
begging me to drape it with some
enough to make it one summer shorts.

Something welled up in my eyes
bare as the poem and as true
and thinking of it
I bought summer shorts
not one but two.

.
I know this place,
light stone avenues,
fig, pear, apricot and apple,
trees that line in rows,
cut paving with neat gutters
**** white granite buildings,
as ferns and creepers
cascade from roof gardens,
the green shining vivid
in appreciation of being alive.
And I connect across the aeons,
this place was my home,
from centuries long passed,
yet reaching out to be found.
The avenues mimic my mind,
long straight and narrow,
broad and winding,
leading to sedate squares
to sit and feel the sun,
to bathe in beautiful isolation.
And the trees sway
casually in a breeze so soft,
it caresses the branches,
enough to tickle the leaves
and cool the ripening fruit.
Here, the forest erupts,
circles around this sanctuary,
forming a natural hedge
to this garden of tranquility,
this oasis in the maelstrom,
this home in my heart.
Flowers of honeysuckle,
jasmine, of clovers and lily,
adorn walls and buildings,
bright in contrast
to the shadows of the trees,
bloom with the intensity of colour,
riotous in hue and arrangement,
yet, ordered to Nature's Law.
Paradise wrapped in image,
slicing through time and space,
my place a thousand years ago,
my place to claim forever,
and the wind carries me home,
I know this place,
because it lives inside of me,
because I made it.


© Pagan Paul (06/06/18)