The night has been commissioned
to awaken in me
the ubiquitous longing for your touch.
The mindlessness consumes me
when I wander from dream to dream,
fantasizing the ever after
that’ll mysteriously become present
once you touch.

The exuberant charm in every swipe
of the breeze broadens a smile,
reminding me of the endless passion
for good humor and intense delight
that you decree in large measures
whilst I quail in love.    

It is diabolical, this game you play
of keeping in shadows
while I wither,
in the unremitting glare of the sun
that keeps me on the banks of the dark lake
leaving me with only
a few drops to wet my hand.

I will implore to have an end
to this ceaseless battle of restraint and abandon,
But am only left with a tremulous belief,
it is all not false what I see,
in the glorious mist that night casts,
I do not only sleep.

There is no delight like the end
to the shrill whistle of the kettle set to boil.
While the brew might be dense,
Perchance a lil’ bitter,
the gulp of hot tea is ever divine

In a story so old, is a story of love told
as the little folks go nodding their heads.
A tale of a sin, it is has centuries been
the mystery that has, so many, misled.

Amidst the bristling leaves, to which they paid no heed
the lovers, they parried their foes.
In the wisdom of lust; for which one must crave so much,
the lovers, they deafened the shores.

The mighty they came, the mighty they slayed
and time whistled past them to flee.
It was a bruised sky that woke her,
and the weeping earth that cloaked her,
when she fell to knees and roared.

In a story so old, is a story of love told;
when purple mist dawns on us again,
about lovers who met, for those who forget,
that time doesn’t need to know tomorrow.

I can cry;
the glorious moon cheats
the dazzling sun wanes
the cloudy sky smirks
the pudgy earth refrains

I can cry;
the man in the sidewalk eats
the woman in bus denies
the children on the playground smell
the puppy on the stairway bites

I can cry;
the riddles in the book defy
the maze and mouse are a lie
the gun for a bullet doesn’t shoot
the whistle in my palm doesn’t hoot.

I can cry;
the thoughts in my head lead astray
the senses of my body can delay
the questions I answered gave away
the answers I’ve forgotten are a mistake.

With a steaming mug of coffee in hand I watched:
the sun fall, the wind shiver, the leaves stand and land roll,
the birds swing, yellow beams dance,
and people stride in woollen warmers.
She plucked a flower in fool bloom,
then ambled away with a bamboo basket.
The clink of steel whistled through the air,
rousing sleep in the grouchy ones
saddled with books and a play toy in hand
walking in step with a grown man.
I walked there once, trying to keep pace
clasping a finger as large as my fist.
His snores now fall softly, circling the room
while I stand by the window,
wearing his shoes.

There is nothing but the swirling amber
rising and falling like a sleeping ogre’s chest,
numbing the sense of trepidation that swims about
aimlessly, catching the beacon of the lighthouse.
In the dark we dispel all our inhibitions
for who is wont to notice?
But in the face of their stares and processing brains
we stumble, afraid of them knowing
what to us is unknown.
And whilst we play this game of cat and mouse
there is the swirling amber, charming the enduring soul
with its potion of surreptitious logic
and potent healing magic,
we drain.