#bohemia
So much adds to her, oh where do I begin,
Her sharp green eyes like emeralds on her sun kissed skin
Her bangles clang while her boots thud
My heart races when she walks near, I'm afraid she could hear
And I notice she smells of sweet rose buds
She is unique, with her Beatles shirt
and her short white skirts
Her infectious smile, shaming the stars
I swear, I'm her biggest admirer
Her hair drapes over her shoulders, falling down her back
Gentle waves of cascading auburn hair
She's the definition of beauty, to be exact
Like a summers night, like the last light of day
Like the harvest moon, it takes all my will to hold my swoons at bay
I love this Bohemian girl, with her oddities and all
My lovely bohemian girl, she keeps me enthralled
A name to grace my lips, never so sweet;
Ivy
And now my love is complete
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 7:50 PM UTC
Of a night on a battered red leather sofa
It's moved with us three times
It sits in a room with a broken bay window
And we sit on it too
And we sit on it too
Drinking yellow anise from mismatched glasses
With ice, not warm water
Singing stories, spinning yarns with broken bottles
Of girls with leopard-print hands
And the straw man in the moon
The straw man in the moon.
The cord hangs on the wall:
A symbol, but not symbolic
As chords rise, break off and fall
All a sham, but not shambolic
A sham, but not shambolic.
Swapping tales and anecdotes of cars parked between cake stalls
And days with names that don't suit them
People dying for causes they don't understand
And war is an island; a land hyperbolic
A Green land, a war land; unplanned hyperbolic.
Linguistics are twisted and brass tales are dropped
A cork is unwrapped from the web where it popped
But the darkness is rising, the hours are ticking
The side is hitched up so we all know we're doomed.
We hear children singing in the guitar strings,
Their screeches rising as they fall,
Our speeches diving as they fall.
And speaking of speeches, he says, a performance is mine
But in France, man... in France the markets are open
And the fields of Provence roll down to the menhirs of Carnac
And Brocéliande lies to us all,
And Brocéliande lies to us all.
Jun 23, 2015
Jun 23, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
Remember
Back in the day
When those parties
In Venice
That say would have 25 people or so
Walking through?
Now they were
Too big
Over-packed with
50-200?
With frat boy vibes?
Dana Rick and I
Arrived at one
And I thought a
At the sliding glass door
Oh God
And quickly escaped to the kitchen
Cutting through the living room
Where there was the make shift bar
Nothing much in the
Fridge
Anyway
I made my drinks
And turned around
To cross back
And somehow Dana was there
In front of me
She raised her hands
And wiggled through the bodies
While I
Said
NO
I will dance
When I feel like it
I choose
So I began to follow
And every elbow knees hip and arm
Reached out to touch me
Knocking all the contents out of
my little plastic cups
And though
I got to the other side
Contemplatively
Looking back
Empty
The three of us
Went to stand on the side of the house
Safe
By the water meter
And I laid down my cups
Laughing
So the moral of this story
Although I think it’s obvious
Is to
Go
With
The
Flow
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 3:05 PM UTC
Out West I found that
Dangerously glittering bohemian lifestyle.
Where Los Angeles falls down with joy
And rumbles deep from its canyon bellies
And when you need some sadness
You split to Berlin
And come back with none of your clothes.
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 4:53 PM UTC
Venice parties
You know those
200 in a space made for 50?
A monster that
You had to
Protect yourself from?
Three of us
In the living room and I got
To the Kitchen. For safety.
Serving adequate, and me
on my way back
Drinks in each hand
Bodies through Dana leading
Her arms above her head
bouncing she won’t spill a drop
The other hands follow
again, me with
stubborn arms
refusing
thus liquid contents emptied and
Sticky
the floor underfoot
Splashed
Outside
The water meter stood laughing
told us about the flow and to go with it
Mar 28, 2021
Mar 28, 2021 at 3:02 PM UTC
A carriage
pulled by donkeys in yellow gloves
rides into the village square
The moon shines in the sky
carrying the wild night on its shoulders
Lamb clouds darken with fear –
chased by a wolf – the Evening
Out of the carriage looks HE – twenty years on his head
and SHE just a little less
People along the road graze on them with their eyes
tearing piece by piece from their bodies:
For the First Time
For the Last Time
Once
Above the procession
glows in a long strip
the centre of our Galaxy
toward the constellation of the Eagle –
breathing with a thin and fragile balance of the Universe
But no one here cares
astronomy is beyond their gaze
People say: it will rain
or: not a drop for a week
We have fun today – at last!
The fever won’t catch us –
in the lit dormers
under the red cockerel of roofs no one dies
The Two walk in a tight grip –
squeezing knuckles – but their touches are cold
For both –
this evening is stiff in shoulders
and they are forgetting
they are not just wooden figurines
Behind them the musicians -
trumpets tinny singing
the violins would rather not
A march of beats and musicians
walking through the quiet open land
The neighbour stretches her neck like a giraffe
to catch a piece of the wedding melody –
torn by cold and tossed in the wind
over the fences
Grandma and grandpa joke –
baring their gappy teeth at wooden chairs
The village wheel turns
***
Before the inn already waits a crowd:
Downcast eyes
a smile or a glance up –
Two three scarves
– the rest bare-headed
A shovel sinks into the soft soil
a pint slams on the table
and someone retches at the thought
that tomorrow the innkeeper will wade
through a stubble of empty battered chairs
asleep in the wildest positions
It’s
alive
loud
noisy
but not a single clear word crawls out of their mouths
Only the innkeeper laughs like an animal
but no one minds
no one thinks of him or of the lovers now
They are forgotten sooner
than they managed to grow up into their wedding clothes
Dinner ends –
Midnight is coming
The coachman cracks his whip
people jostle at the door
They push HER and HIM outside –
huddled together
so they don’t feel the silence and dark
on the way to church
at the hour of ghosts
Outside the snow creaks
frost flows along the ground
The holy mass in a church without a roof
flies straight into the ears of night
The priest searches in the book for Holy Scripture
like grains in a field
and at the words of the Last Judgement
the graves behind the church come alive
The lovers kneel on the tiles
eyes hanging on the cross
Their hands are trembling
but the crowd sweeps them up
tears the shyness
slides on the wedding rings
and joins together the first married kisses
***
The way from the church is easier –
outside God cannot guard them
All the pagan desires stand along the road
hidden behind the dewy trees
May 15
May 15, 2026 at 3:40 PM UTC