The colors that best define the beauty of colors is black and white; hence the reason my memories are all grey, for they preserve the best of colors of life.

Against the gentlest ashen bones n’ flesh
I brush my skin and devour this gest
Driveling to stretch these moments last
For let me relish this spell afore;
My beloved becomes my precious past

On this illusory floor of lustrous dreams
I smash the glass of self-esteem
Tapping and whirling until I’m bereaved
For let me evanesce in pulse afore;
The hour is struck of my beloved’s leave

I pluck the leaves of my insanity n’ grief
And brew it well with my rusty belief
On this unsullied tongue I taste the wine
For let me drink before they lift;
Walls around my beloved’s shrine

Over the tormented waters;
I build a wharf and cast my woes
And I lay in peace as a sleeping child
Whilst averting noises n’ my cries
For let me rest in peace afore;
Veils are laid as my beloved dies

While reading an article last night about fathers and sons, memories came flooding back to

the time I took me son out for his first pint.

Off we went to our local pub only two blocks from the cottage.

I got him a Guinness.  He didn't like it, so I drank it.

Then I got him a Kilkenny's, he didn't like that either, so I drank it.

Finally, I thought he might like some Harp Lager?   He didn't.   I drank it.

I thought maybe he'd like whiskey better than beer so we tried a Jameson's, nope!

In desperation, I had him try that rare Redbreast,Ireland's finest.   He wouldn't even smell it.

What could I do but drink it!

By the time I realized he just didn't like to drink, I was so feckin ****-faced I could hardly

push his pram back Home.

At the rise of the white moon,
our father speaks to us;
so let your dreams run free.

In the hours of the night
when you lie fast asleep,
let those dreams run free.

There is time in the sun,
where you and I run,
so stay patient, darling.

For the same love that draws
the white moon toward us,
will also draw us home.

Beneath beautiful rainbows
and high flying eagles,
we wait for perfections,

holding your hand in mine
we walk and we listen
waiting for song and pictures

The red fires of sunrise,
and the circle of scars,
and precious oaths I sing

Enclosed inside our dreams,
laughters and yellow memories
we kept the pictures of



                                       you and me.

To call you a ******* would degrade a marvelous animal , one that has provided companionship , loyalty and assistance to mankind for well over a thousand years ! You are Mica ! A lifeless rock glittering in the sunlight , with many see through layers , brittle with very little redeeming qualities , laying like a precious stone yet not even worth a casual glance ! To tag you as a stupid *** would not be fair to the Mule , hard working farm animal , strong willed till his time of dying , up at the crack of Dawn , protecting the farm from coyote and fox , off to the fields for another days work ! You're a Myna bird , eyes fixed to the looking glass , talking all day , confiding in no one , creating discord amongst your brethren ! A pig you are most certainly not , the most intelligent animal on the farm , picky eaters despite their reputation , escaping the most well built fencing available , much to the herdsman's consternation !