The dogs chasing the late autumn leaves
Fluttering down the lane way
The sound of the train as it passes by
Peaceful afternoon walk
The cottage walls and porches
Flourish of colour
Enwreathed with ivy green
Bellflowers, hollyhocks, hydrangea
Scents of lavender and sage
Evoke
Memories of childhood days
Visiting grandparents cottages
One in the Irish Wicklow mountains
The other in the suburbs of Athens city
The free flowing sound of the river
Smoke billowing from chimneys
The cottages have no pretense or grandeur
Just a sanctuary of comfort in the silence of the lane
Reaching the darkest corner of the soul

I lived at the end of the road.

Lilies, daisies, roses, zinnias, orchids, azaleas, and bellflowers.

Growing at the side of the river in such rich colors.

I lived at the end of the road where no one dared venture.

I lived in that small peeling yellow house, at the end of that long road.

Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.

Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.

In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.

Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.

I walked the streets,
wishing to hear from you today,
but I see the sad memories as the Adonis open up to cry and pray,
and I remember that I'm just going to slowly fade away,

I was to see a man holding Aster's,
who looked a whole lot like you,
I remembered how you said you loved me,
and then I saw the man pull out flowers as blue as your eyes,

a blue like Anemone for a women,
just as her and my face could show the fading hope,
how she remembered getting Apple Blossom's as a promise from you,
like you had promised to much to keep to me too,

you feel the Bittersweet in the Truth and patients and love you gave,
and you feel Blackthorns stab at you as if it isn't difficult enough,
to forget the pain,
and let the memories fade,

your on your way home,
and you see the bellworths all closed up as if hopelessness is dead,
and the Bittersweet Truth,
is trying to tell you look for the Bellflowers as if he sent you them,

but your heart will learn,
as you race home,
your heart will drop,
when you don't see hee wants to talk to you,

but when you see Butterfly Weeds on your doorstep,
as if he was trying to tell you,
Let Me Go,
when you wanted him to fly back,

I don’t know how I feel about you
Even though I can see your eyes pleading me to say the magic words
“ Its ok”
“ I forgive you”
“ I don’t mind at all”
Well not tonight
I would normally feel weird if I don’t talk to you for a long time
But not tonight
You take step towards forward
I can smell the flowers from here but I will probably just give them away to the nice woman a few apartments away from ours
A smiley faced nurse with a veteran husband
She will probably appreciate the pink peonies and purple bellflowers more then me
You smell nice and it looks like you ironed your own things
Well I refuse to budge
I don’t really want to go upstairs put on spandex and sit through a miserable meal of cheese fondue, creamed spinach, beef roulade and potatoes and pie a la mode
Watch with disinterest as you charmed your friends wife
Endure a long ride in the quiet woods
swat off your clumsy attempts at making up
step out of pointy
wipe off fakery and put up with heartburn and gas for the entire night
Nope
So here are your keys and there's the door
Now into the kitchen for creamy chocolate profiteroles and pink bubbles

Before,
Poetry was a young Bride
Blindfolded only to bath
In a bouquet of bellflowers and an emerald of bracelets
Built for bloom, and built to bring bliss to her groom
But now it's born and baptized in belligerency,
Like a bag of bullets ready for ****** battles
breaking bridges and  burning the old barbaric norm,