The smell of mahogany
as you walked through
those white wooden doors
and the dried lavender
that spoke of summers past.
She raved about the art deco
treasures and wonders she
collected and I was mesmerised
by the ancient modernity
sugar crystals of brown and gold
were put into darjeeling tea
next to collections
of handmade theatre masks
hung among portraits of
a younger blonde girl.
The sounds of a stormy night
as we sat eating some
honey roasted almonds
were a rhapsody to us at candlelight
I wanted to sketch her antiques
and add them to the
painting filled walls
one of them I found
was an old typewriter
a Mercedes that her mother had
found discarded in a dump
she didn’t know if it worked
and so gave me some ivory paper
now I sit with the lace tablecloth
by the window to the
evening street below
cars pass with the softest breeze
and I write of summers past.

Collapsing emotions
            corrode on my
          ****** perfection.

What was diminishing,
   now collecting in a cup
            of palmed hands collected.


I wanted to no that of your
               miracles,
                            that even
though tears fell,
you never turned

            those now memory to a wine
                         of hope...

Auschwitz was a million
                  tears choked,
but you never turned
a single tear
               to a vintage of peace.


We just choked on the tears,
     and we were a vineyard
                         of silence.


Each a grape that never reached
               maturity.

Instead we fell before we could become
              more that we were.
These tears are sour,
and the taste
                erodes every fallen tears morality.

the summer roses
flower then unsettle,
crumple in the storm,
blow red to brown.

My happy place is my reality now,
dancing like a  symphony on the seventh heaven.
It's the kind of joy, that'll keep me warm,
when the fireplace freezes and blisters surround my bruises.

The merryland  is not greeting me too long
'cause the reality will take me to the peak and spin away.
I can sense the free-fall charging towards me
and hurling my life back to the ordinary way.

I'd be a happier man if my happiness wasn't real
and if it was a dream that has decided to stay.
Dreams never die, they're like vintage honey,
the sweetness is complicated but it gets better each day.

I can let my summer go on for ages
and lie wasted under sheets of pleasure.
Living the dreamy life will make me a clumsy ******
but will let me hold on to my life's treasure.

the star of the star of the morning
is restful and breathful and free

the star of the star of the evening
blossoms dark as a shadowy tree,


the waves drive out far in their rivers
as blue as a star in the sky,

and the darkness relents for her shivers
must finally die.


waves turning and burning and dancing
clouds wandering e'er ever on

and the darkness that finds the new morning,
as cold as stark night's bitter song,


oh, brother who wept for my sisters
no tears as alive as their breath

swept out where the wild sea blisters
and pain knows of death.


wild whispers, wild birds and the fury
of waves that sing out to the clouds

the death then of life that we bury
laid out in the whitest of shrouds


the sea, oh, the sea, how she sings me
a song of a dance never sung

and her rhythms soon calm and placate me
her bell solemn rung.


and sweet love is the journey i strive for
as blue as a mysterious sea

and the love is a fruit full of succor,
and the moment will live e'er free,


you stand tragic as a painting so mournful
alone as a poet who rests,

and the lull of the storms here at night fall
the sea's treasure chests.


the day wraps the night in her roses
and night wraps the day in her sight

and midnight's soft moonlight supposes
that day is a journey e'er bright,


and love was a love still forever
and love had no rose in her bower

for the floor of the sea like a feather
the delicatest flower.

my past lies behind me
like the hairs that are tangled
into a bun resting on the back of my neck
like the world that dangles in my rear view mirror of my vintage
car with the torn seats
it comes to me daily
in everything i do
its there
it always will be there
but my future reminds me as its gushing through my windshield onto my face
its making my long brunette waves shimmer
and my olive skin glow
that something brighter is ahead