There was a picture
you once took
of the moment
that forever changed my life

Of the virtual you
and the virtual me
becoming virtual we
on a chaise-longue in paradise

You showed it me later
though I never had a copy
now the evidence is gone
yet the image remains

It's etched there forever
in the centre of me
and you once wondered
if it was just about the chase

But those doubts were misplaced
it was never the chaise
for me you see
it was all about the longue

Cynthia Pauline Jones, 30/8/13

The figure lurks behind my lidded eyes:
His back is all a-hunch and he is mad
With thoughts of you. But often when he lies
He dreams as slender silver as you had.
Your beauty haunts the belfry of my head
And Shakespeare’s darkened lady’s takes a glare.
The sun was Rosaline and I was dead
The day I searched for you and found you there.

The river ran too quick against our days.
My love for you, which never found its wife,
Heard clear those words you said upon the chaise.
The words, "I could not do", which were your knife.
So here am I with no chance to rephrase;
You wounded me with words. I took your life.

Inspired by a vintage ****** postcard from the 1920s - 30s:

The Muse sits resplendent
caressed in sepia tones and pastel cream
gilded with the glaze of a bygone era
her silk Charleston negligee
worn proud like a vintage ornament
perched on an aesthetically pleasing
shapely pert insolent *****
blossomed with tiny beads of sweat
the heat of such anticipation
entices the pearls of the ******
to pamper and pleasure their perversions

etched as if in a radiance of candlelight
the flickering limbs pulse their bloom
nimble fingers of dancing shadows
cupping the feline curves of a chaise longue
the purposefully out of place set piece
the fantasy of a gentleman's reading room
caked in casked sherry
and Nat Sherman cigar infused aromas

her elegant pose sumptuous reclining
elbow length satin gloves
sensually wrapped in wanton desire
******* clasp a Sorbranie Black Russian
smoked like a sultry gypsy
with a fervent demeanour
from a silver opera cigarette holder
beckoning with the cats eyes of mischief
over Pinced nez eyeglasses
with a fascination imbibed
in the praxis of passion

the peach skin of refulgent youth
directs the viewer downwards, slowly
survey each contour of olive skin
and stroke every hidden cleft of fabric
to glimpse the nubile thighs of grace
leading the eye to the arch of an ankle
slipped like a fitted glove
nestled in the cleavage of her calf
and the chastity of future wonderment

the forgotten photograph
captures a period in time
the memories of the muse
now in motionless existence
a demure allure forever frozen
once lost, but now
never forgotten

We don’t really understand

How atoms behave;

Or infinity;

Or how winds carry the seasons -

Like ‘Olde April ‘ with it’s 'showers sweet' !

Yes, I’ve felt them...



The clean stinging scent of rain

Scratching at the earth,

Pelting aromatic plants,

Condensing the smells of seas, winds, continents;

Infusing the sum of all these aromas in its perfumery,

Marketing it: April, again.



And Eliot said,

There be April,

'The cruellest month'.

Oh my (!)

Appealing April, with its sunny flavours,

Cascades of cats & dogs,

And dead-eye jack,

Firing frosts that just might spend the tender herb.



It was snowing in April,

And Easter was early, that year

When I took Schrödinger’s cat walking

On a leash, And April was still new,

And capable of shocking...



Now any month - could bring pitiless ruin.

The year annually

Out of step with migratory designs,

Throwing epithets out of its greenstick pram,

Its months in disarray ,

No-one knows what’s going on...





The drunkard earth sups up it’s own tears,

Reeling in its spin,

Until,

Saturated,

It can drink no more,

And every dip fills,

Every meadow spills,

Banks overflowing,

Its resolve drowning,

Questions washing

Up like a tide of interrogative curiosity.



OK – so I am really hiding in my acres...

At least I can tell - it’s April !



Enquiring lily-of-the-valley,

Puts up green periscopes.

Peering through the sodden grass,

The remnants of last year’s soggy leaves,

Cosset primrose & ramsons.

Daffodils are past their best, but soldier on

Like hungover squaddies,

Snowdrops have fat capsules where white drops shone,

Hellebores have been up since the crack of time -

Good movers - they could dance all spring!

Dingles are glinting green with native bluebell leaves,

And their mophead mates have muscled in the garden,

Quiet violets lounge on the field’s chaise long,

Coy, understated,

How British!

Oxlips and cowslips join the brave primroses

Who have been on the razzle for weeks.

White & purple lilac in green cassocks,

Will soon burst out

Like kiss-o-grams.

Boughs hung with clematis,

Still tiny shoots like birds on wires.



I am giving a prize for the first celandine on my patch;

Each little celandine - Rannunculus ficaria - is

A miniature sun uttering: Oi! You up there, old currant bun!

Here’s the template for a perfect summer sky !

HALF A POUND OF INSOMNIA WITH A LARGE DOLLOP OF TIREDNESS ON TOP

Sleep lies languidly
upon the chaise longue.

I sit uncomfortably in
an old wicker chair.

We stare at each other.
Say - nothing.

Neither of us
blinks.

I have counted  exactly
two thousand and 2....3. . .

sheep.
They fill up the room

with a loud baaing.
There is no grass in the room.

But I am more awake
than ever.

Sleep and I
do not see eye to eye.

Sleep annoyed by now
goes to the window

where even the moon is
dreaming.

A  hill
long gone.

Trees snore
their breath rustling their leaves.

"Why do I always
have this trouble with you?"

Sleep snaps
without looking at me.

I try to change
the subject.

"I didn't know you
could manifest like this?"

I venture for the sake
of the argument.

"Oh no...now you've gone
and trapped me in a poem!"

In the early hours
of the coming day

even Sleep
falls asleep.

I yawn
exaggeratedly .

Hum KLF's
"It's three am eternal!"

Each of the now 2000 and 4...5
join in

with a tuneless
baaing.

"See they come, post haste from Thanet"

See they come, post haste from Thanet,
Lovely couple, side by side;
They've left behind them Richard Kennet
With the Parents of the Bride!
Canterbury they have passed through;
Next succeeded Stamford-bridge;
Chilham village they came fast through;
Now they've mounted yonder ridge.

Down the hill they're swift proceeding,
Now they skirt the Park around;
Lo! The Cattle sweetly feeding
Scamper, startled at the sound!

Run, my Brothers, to the Pier gate!
Throw it open, very wide!
Let it not be said that we're late
In welcoming my Uncle's Bride!

To the house the chaise advances;
Now it stops—They're here, they're here!
How d'ye do, my Uncle Francis?
How does do your Lady dear?

Oh! Mr. Best, you're very bad
And all the world shall know it;
Your base behaviour shall be sung
By me, a tunefull Poet. —
You used to go to Harrowgate
Each summer as it came,
And why I pray should you refuse
To go this year the same? —

The way's as plain, the road's as smooth,
The Posting not increased;
You're scarcely stouter than you were,
Not younger Sir at least. —

If e'er the waters were of use
Why now their use forego?
You may not live another year,
All's mortal here below.—

It is your duty Mr Best
To give your health repair.
Vain else your Richard's pills will be,
And vain your Consort's care.

But yet a nobler Duty calls
You now towards the North.
Arise ennobled—as Escort
Of Martha Lloyd stand forth.

She wants your aid—she honours you
With a distinguished call.
Stand forth to be the friend of her
Who is the friend of all.—

Take her, and wonder at your luck,
In having such a Trust.
Her converse sensible and sweet
Will banish heat and dust.—

So short she'll make the journey seem
You'll bid the Chaise stand still.
T'will be like driving at full speed
From Newb'ry to Speen hill.—

Convey her safe to Morton's wife
And I'll forget the past,
And write some verses in your praise
As finely and as fast.

But if you still refuse to go
I'll never let your rest,
Buy haunt you with reproachful song
Oh! wicked Mr. Best! —

My French Gem
The Rose tickler
finely handwritten

The movie part gave
her the sign life
crossed over gem
French kiss the morning
The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun

Double touched but forbidden
On the Cheetah necklace chase
The French Lieutenant 
 her body and lips moonstruck
On her chaise
To get over it another work of art
that got more attention

To revive her from drowning in
the gem scattered like a
benevolent
blue splat philanthropic
Looking more into his unknown
diving suit mixed
with envy green how she got mixed into
the stranger of Poison Ivy
Her love didn't show all her
attributes God spiritually well
She went to the pastry heart
how it flaked all
over like crystals
He was patiently sitting but got persuaded
That little gem of the lounge
Her firey gem was the canary
that got his tongue
Her gem stands taller  
The crafted lines of quality in the
Pillars

"Le Bonheur De  Vivre Gem-Art"

French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting

      He's transformed.

Shape heart delicate uniform.

"Parisians on a mission
A kiss is a serious manner
  LOVE" Gem birth opens her
He modifies her rainbow
Artwork of brush yellow
twinset platter hello fellow

the essence beloved to follow
So worth her wait being watched
By the crystal rock, he loved her
going up in spirit or she falls for him
The gem to be it

Magical modernly gem -fit clock.

See through hands meditation harp.

Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp.

Lips movement beyond hearts.

Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts.

Artesian heels tapping boots.

Fall for Autumn love cahoots.

Beloved, divinely he's the healer.

The picture spoke she's the winner.

Wilderness he glides kisses prints.

Pushing her waves hints.

Everlasting one thought he's guessing?

Art never part beautify stem.

Eyes so genuine he's her gem.

Whoaa, why so blunt, harsh hard-hearted heathen,
hear me out...
chase the dragonfly as it weaves trails to places
you have never dreamed...
                                             or have you?
pick the cherry tomato right off your vine
brush it off and bite down and let the juices
                          stream,
down your granite chin.

In your life were you ever gentle,
I mean soft with kindness,
      in love with blindness,
if you held your hand out would
all the animals long to be
close to you
or would you be all alone
through decades of cultivated fear
                       and evaporated tears,
from the heat of your raging anger
                  your looks like daggers,
skip down the aisles of grocery stores,
even when you are with friends of yours,
have a sock fight and be willing to lose,
sit on some shady chaise somewhere as
the sun sets and just drink in all that
is around, no needs no wants,
no haunts as the skeletons return to
their closets and leave you to be free
to laugh to cry to share to pry
your hands off the greed that chokes
every breath that could have been full
of
life
oh be gentle friend be gentle
their is enough spirits of malice
that yours, your spirit need not
be numbered among them,
oh gentle giant not by stature
not by might but by how God
sees you within His sight and
sings over you,
gentle humble friend if
we had the time to break bread
instead of speed records or
hearts misled by, "that is how we are wired."

Gentle

you can still be a man of courage,
you are a man of strength
you are a gentle man



©DWE072013

Don't wait, because life goes faster
than you think and worrying will
never change the outcome so enjoy
life now because this is not a rehearsal.

Time goes on so whatever your
going to do, you had better do it
knowing that to live is the rarest thing
in the world as most people just exist
and that is all.

Every morning that you wake up you
have two choices and that is to
continue to sleep with your dreams
or to wake up and chaise them.

In the blink of an eye everything can
and will change because nothing
ever stays the same in the game of life
and every time that we embrace a
memory we meet again with those
we love and those we have loved.

We worry about tomorrow like it
was promised and we wonder
why that if time is infinite, why
is there never enough of it?

Accept the sweet and the bitter
along with the joys and the sorrows
that enter into your life everyday
because tomorrow isn't guaranteed
so stay patient and accept your
journey knowing that some walks
you have to take alone.
                                                          ­  Jon York
                                                            ­                         2016

~Castle in the Sky~
In the summer of my days,
I sit alone on a chaise in the bedroom.
Clothes draped,
Books as cue,
And my chest heavy from my burdens.
How will this all end?
The inevitable question.
Deemed to be alone forever?
I dare not to consider this.
Suppose, is to assume I’ve lost heart.
For not is my will to strive for passion.
He’s somewhere I have not looked.
I agreed to be found 
But stuck in a labyrinth to test my fate.
At the door he awaits to seize me 
And share me with no other.
I am aware of the existence of love.
The love that is already all around me;
Yet it does not come easy.
The sun strikes the afternoon position.
I lie upon my chaise and fall into slumber
Like a potion has been ingested.
My lover calls to me, 
In my castle in the sky.
I try to run to him,
The fog is too thick
I cannot be seen.
I move to the sweet sound of his voice.
There is a gate in the mists.
I cannot gain access.
I try and fall.
Though I persist.
I yearn to be with him.
I must find him
He ought to reveal his identity.
I see a vague figure,
Far beyond the gate.
I cry out to him 
Pleading to let me in.
My heart pounds so hard
It leaves ringing in my ears.
My veins pulsate with adrenaline
My stomach hatching butterflies.
He starts toward me
“Yes!” I think,
Soon he’ll be revealed to me.
As he ascends from the entrance hall,
I begin to be pulled back.
Quickly blinded and yanked away.
“No!” I scream, 
But he doesn’t seem to hear me.
I try to grab onto the gate, 
My hands slipping, 
I cannot take hold.
He is becoming farther and further away.
And then my eyes open.
It is then,
I realize it was just a dream.
He is lost to me 
Forever.
Out of breath I seize the glass.
Gasping,
I take a sip 
Then smash it against the fireplace.
With my head in my hands
I look up;
Panting and yearning 
To be free.