These tiny movements of the heart
love tokens of the Universe
skip along the Sun, Moon, and Stars.

There's a poem on your window
one on the door
another in the wind's blow
welling up more.

There's a poem in your heartbreak
one on your tears
another on a long trek
walking for years.

There's a poem on the girl's eye
one on her skin
another in her silent cry
wearing out thin.

There's a poem in the hope's hue
one in your whim
another on the morning dew
waiting light's gleam.

There's a poem in the mirrored face
one in the season
another in your happiness
without a reason.

A last dance at sunset.
The sky falling in.
Blood moons, eclipses.
All ending too soon

Sleeping in bed.
Lonesome as ever.
Playing chasing games.
With the land of never,
Never ever.

Never know more.
Not ever lest, neither.
A bite out the sun.
World's a survivor.
The river's turned into blood.
Flowing.
Washed up on the muddy bank.

Vermilion, orange, turquoise bright blue.
This place is a mess and it's all about you.
You, who no longer exists.
A pain in a hear felt.
Missing a beat.
So sorely missed.
Gone forever.
Love in a mist.
(c)Livvi

Rain falling at midnight.
Clock strikes thirteen.
Speaking of love.
Speaks verbatim.
Says as is believed.
What she's wanting to hear.

She is his treasure.
He keeps her locked in a passion ***.
Smokes a pipe, of you know what.
He puffs cos he's loving it.
Keeps him all mellow.
Inside his blood runs a strange shade of yellow.
No choice of his own, red streaked with terror.

He reaches his pint.
It helps him forget.
That war experience making him wretched.
Clumsy and hopeless.

His love here lays dormant.
He so wants to love her.
Sadly he can't.

A victim from Nam.
Iraq and Japan.
Wars won and two.
He can't love you.
Or her or anyone else.
He is the sad hero who can't love himself.

His war is over now.
He drifts off to sleep.
Dream lady lover.
Please don't cha weep.
(c)Livvi

Friedman's not a happy bunny,
'The next hundred years'
is not very funny nor is
it relevant to me, but it's
an interesting read if only
to feed the lines of this...
next..
...the States so he says,
will lead us in ways
we have yet to imagine
until Mexico rises taking back
what belongs to them, robots
and genes and Poland and teams
spreading out to look for new labour.

It is not a bright not a brave new tomorrow
not a light not left on and not a mother that
cries not in sorrow not in grief and not
for a belief that was stolen at childbirth,
for what it's worth,
not nothing for no one for the States
lost the union and the will to survive
dies.

We carry in our backs
the arrows from attacks by the big boys
with the crossbows
and that's how it goes.

I keep reading
feeding
on
words.