Sacred sepulchre, steeped in sombre silence,
Secret sanctuary, scarcely a sound,
Sisters sleep serenely, secluded and skyless,
Sibilance simmering! Snoring and snoozing,
Sapphic sisters, summoned from slumber…

Sensational *******! Sudden and shuddering!
Shattering silence! Shuttering sanctity!
Squeaking and squealing! Squelching and squeezing!
Seamstresses *******, slotted slits slithering,
Squashing the scripture, smearing and smothering.

***-starved *******! Searing and savage!
Shuffling sisters - Seduced and salacious!
Sapphic Salvation - Spit! Salivation!
Submissively spearheading: same-*** spanking,
Summiting sweetly - Spectacular squirting!

Sanctified sisters, sighing suggestively,
Suspecting scripture, surmising sagely,
Sectarian schisms - Shameful and senseless?
Sapphic sermons, signal the Sabbath,
Seraphic sisters, snuggling sweetly,
Sink soothingly into synergy.

Alliteration
of your name
is like
a poem.
It coos and cranes,
it makes me
feel sated
with cheeky bells on.
It makes my soul
feel quenched
when I sing it out
when you don’t show up.
I want to slide down
the lines
of your name
like it’s
a poem.
Give me a Zaza,
not a Zizi;
almost a Zissou,
never a Vossy.
For somebody, those are
the lines of truth,
but yours is a love oath
and the breeze
to me.
And I feel so jazzy!
It takes all of me
to give it away
back to you
for free.

There is a tree covered in ribbons
Growing by the riverside.
Small buds wake to springtime
Early in the blue brightness.
Many strips of cloth wind round
The Greiving Tree.
I added my own yesterday
During a rest on the long road.
It was a comfort to see many
Memento-leaves gathered close.
Yesterday's sun rose glimmering
On fresh snow and footprints.
Foxes howled in the forest
And hares danced for longer days.
Today the mountains beckon
Speaking of silence and solitude.
True leaves have not yet grown
On the prayer-handed trees.
Ribbons colour the melting winter
Red and purple, blue and green.

Poetry isn't the description of the unique, never before heard.
Poetry is the carefully crafted common
The familiar and mundane
As an abstract art.

We know that
Round the rugged rock the ragged rascal ran
  but what secrets does that sentence slyly hide from our eyes?

Who is the ragged rascal that ran round the rugged rock?
  Ralph or Mary, Alfred or Freda?

Was the rock
  amid the sandy ozone odoured, shelly blue roaring sea shore
  or the languishing lavender scented purple pastures of Provence?

Does the rock think
  why is this ragged rascal interrupting my rest,
  pausing my Requiem in Pace with their irreverent running,
  circumnavigating the penumbra of my circumference?

Is it sand or grass that feels
  the feet of the ragged rascal running fast
  or the rugged rock, whose repose the rascal wrecked?

Why is the ragged rascal running
  perspiring to meet a perfumed maid or prurient boy
  or play some fiendish prank of trick or treat on foe or friend?

Will we ever realize our desire to perceive
  why the ragged rascal ran round the rugged rock?

And if the intensions of the ragged rascal become intelligible:
  did Peter Piper taste the peck of pickled pepper that he picked
needs investigation.