an orange sat contentedly
or so it seemed to a quick eye
its skin glowed invitingly
reflected table top sheen
only to bring a belated sigh
when all at once it rolled
and rushed and crashed
on a cold polished marble floor

Is remorse a prison to the soul
the sole utterance of reproach
that if not to myself be True
the possible best in life accrue

what if regret creeps on the morning
a thief stalking the shadow of dawn
(re)fresh from bare motive drawing
crystal arteries of a day that is new

or shall we allow the mind meander
let it's "work" find itself crowning
there in its core uncover simplicity
strip away a mournful state of heart ?

behind each poem
behind each rhyme
is more than a story
more than a parody

under each layer of verse
there is a beating heart
under each line we find
a poet, a person, a mind

behind each poem
past each non-rhyme
in a varied place and clime
there a person wrote in time

A "dying" family car can drive a child to grow up or become sad.

sunrise unveiled a promise of treasure
demure as petals enjoining midday
grey clouds thin in billowy summer breeze
freeze a moment before this day consumes


sunset reveals firefly melodies
meandering starlit rivers flow,
flowered evening fragrances wafting;
welcomes a momentous nocturne

witnessed a Sarasota sunrise today
at 20:21 PM via live feed, on screen
to tidal songs that sounded like pounding
wavelets folding into the shore while
gulls milled about on a wooden jetty

clouds hovering in a lazy breeze that
didn't care either way for its entrance
peeking past the horizon between gaps
piercing through the distant haze
with an orangey sparkle in its wake

candle in the window
for the son of a widow
now left orphaned, save

for a bejewelled crown
whose issue once secured
now stands a former flame

for want of royal surrogacy
where an uncle demurred
now twice an heir found


candle once in the wind
on a window sill still, sits
once, always the people’s princess

.


revolutions of the second hand
innumerable to the watchful eye
has not comforted this bruising
nor can this heart run far enough


away from the pulsing gangrene
when off the darkest mile it tread
in the cooling of a fading day that
gentle crushing fixed completely


drowning in despondent smiles
wafting wavelets forlorn, wailing,
whispering affections now silent
wanting a happier, more innocent time


.

.











In this lifetime of striving
childhood's tentative bumbling,
youth's arrogant impertinence,
middle-aged regimented conceit,
in old age, encrusted intolerance;
when will we likely ever win?







.

.


sunrise unveiled a promise of treasure
demure as petals enjoining midday
grey clouds thin in billowy summer breeze
freeze a moment before this day consumes


sunset reveals firefly melodies
meandering starlit rivers flow,
flowered evening fragrances wafting;
welcomes a momentous nocturne


.

filled with melancholy
mood lit by lampshade
names and faces dissipate

weathered post it sticks
if only the memory did

tragic queen Elyssa, foundress
of Carthage. Her brother, Pygmalion
slew her husband, the chief priest
Acharbas and in the uproar fled
with Tyrian nobles, bearing gold 
on a fleet of Phoenician ships.

Then on Mauritanian coastline
she bought some land to build 
a new city-state, from the vantage
of Byrsa on which her citadel stands
'circumfenced' by strips of ox-hide
strung along the perimeter of the hill

The Berber chieftain rather stingily
offered as much land as an ox-hide
could cover and later on sought her 
hand in marriage as the city grew
in wealth and regional importance
but she threw herself into flames

of a priestly funeral pyre to Tanit,
in self-immolation for the dead
god of vegetation, Adonis-Eshmun;
Dido, as she was known, hence was
elevated to goddess and patroness
of that great Punic realm of Carthage

some time, somewhere out there


someone had said
that one part of poetry
is a reservoir that holds
all the sadness of this world


What then does this say of a poet?


it is not seen how
that portion poets bear
bare on virginal leaves
all their flight and fears


are tears morphed in pressed ink

as soon as it's spoken
as soon as it's heard
words   e v a  p  o  r   a   t   e
words depreciate
so we try to keep them frozen
and chisel them onto poems
with a hope, come melt-time
a fossilised facsimile resides

When your winter breaks into spring
think of new and wonderful things

while autumn creeps passed your window
break this winter free of sorrow

wait upon seasons - wait on life
live each day loving - escaping

weave each day's new strands - engaging
one day looking back - mem'ries rife.

Were it not for one to play buffoon

or to say of none we're way too soon

involved in peddling mass hysteria

when it's been held in each posterior

consciousness - makers of peace are

blessed. So ever to be near or far

we at our disposal have in hand

a power to write upon our sand.

people are our real legacy;
one day sure, entire poems
shall have been forgotten,
while remains a phrase or
a feeling drawn from wells
deeper than memory can
reach, or device can retrieve
much like thread-diving as
we scamper for posts buried
by traffic and flood posters…
follow, subscribe, or friend
buttons can only do so much
so we hang on to what we
have and hold dear, today
saving each precious moment
if bookmarked sentiments
are promises all will be well
we’ll boldly breathe again

It might the flying Dutchman be
Or the fame of those fishermen three
How it, planks of our own fashioning, walk we!

Child of the outside
on the inside
one foot out
one foot in
never belonging
never apart

Child of the inside
on the outside
one foot in
one foot out
never apart
never belonging

Child of both sides
on neither side
both feet out
both feet in
never apart
never a part

Heart & soul divided
Mind & hands confused
Ears & nose demanding
Eyes & tongue confiding
Child of both
Child of none

__________
an older piece retrieved from the 'attic'

'

With disdain they looked upon one Billy McGee
a boy that promised never to be;
a rep that’s scarred and scratched,
for sure his name’s mismatched
as darker skin ya’ever did see
on blackish hair with reddish flecks of Billy McGee.

A red haired aboriginal boy
matches were only a toy
and he was caught red handed
and always branded
the troublesome fire starter.
Poor boy had no farda
he was stolen in a generation;
trouble, his one destination
for any of his wild-sown seed.
Never had a chance, Billy McGee.

Belatedly, towing a rust-worn Saab, where
many dreams and adventures are wrenched
from a youngster's brooding petulance ...

Gravel crunches under a pair of balding tires
guttural screaming to a downbeat of debt
spewing silently from a tattered billfold.

What a present: timely to an empty fridge,
in the hallway, a growing pile of washing
impatiently reeking of malodorous intent.

quarter turn of a century
can't relieve this quandary;
what run across our puerile minds,
raising up these woollen blinds?
perhaps another season; two
to find for us a useful clue
we stand upon a smouldered wreck
in this our unenviable trek
from these ashes phoenixes arise

Picking up the internal slack
and bring about an inward tension
that emboldens for one to face the day
and the prospects of oncoming ones.
Where wet cheeks, are visible cues
of flipping calendars, leaf upon leaf:
existing surrenders
and like a sparkled after-rain,
brings a moist crystality
that fills in the cracks
and mends the broken places.

The journey begins always in the mind
but it always manifests with the sliding
of rectangular boxes encasing index cards.
The faint odour of vinegary wood ensues
and a chase scene begins in a wooded
forest of leaves, bound by hundreds and
thousands upon thousands of both soft
and hardbound varieties, gilded or plain.
These days a computer terminal or a
touch screen has replaced these boxes
but their function remains the same;
being akin to boarding pass gates that
regulate your voyage above and beyond.

resuscitate
an ailing soul
bereft of starlight's

superb glimmer
and woollen warmth.  
Mayhap, stellate glow

in the stillness
of tranquil flight,
their counsel, console.

Humbly, we plea--
hymn of the night,
come and tarry awhile.*




_ _ __ ✏
○●
°

his tears used to wake him
from an unduly prolonged delay

her smiles used to hurt him for
their beauty his heart, dismay:

their love had locked them up
and threw away the only key

and mile upon mile of wishful thinking
pushed them further away, though free

he looked into a well-used mirror to find
the devil he danced with was himself

and the fireflies that once lit their canopy
have also lost their former glee

Once prismatic brilliance;
brilliant only through borrowed light;

alone again in darkness, glum;
gleams, instant companion of night --

blind to grief and deaf to joy,
save by pristine thought, on lonely height:

a lone, canine howl reports and echoes,
as nocturnal critters hide, out of sight.*



_✒
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°