a sensual curve
to the facade

- infinite femininity -

arched above
rounded windows

- innuendos art of love -

deco of desire
climbing higher

- echoing fire -

...descending spiral stairway
home to shanty on the bay.

r ~ 10/9/14

Step by step a kite ascends to the sky
regains  memory of transcendence
of once being the echo of a cloud
sailing speedily westwards.
the kite remembers another life
and strays far beyond it's distance permitted,
when the string rudely pulls it back,controls,
the young cloud, narcissistic
still keeps it's love for the echo, in swirling
wisps of vapor as gently caressing wet touch

The lone woman who suppresses deep inside her chest,
the tumultuous waves of love and passion,
imbuing the emotion sunset spews, suddenly breaks down
the startled sea breeze is the only witness to her outburst.

the sky slipping fast in to the gloom of darkness
stands frozen, silent, as if melting in the pain love causes,
when one bids final good bye to the beloved, vowed never to part.

so...
this is it!!!
we have reached,
the epoch!
and now busy,
ourselves,
buying souvenirs
and taking selfies.

what next...
if this is the age of,
best "whatever" ever!!!
where do we go from here?
after ever ... is done,
(remember the reality is,
ever is never really done!)

well i suppose we
'mose well pack ourselves,
into the best pine boxes,
ever made and return,
into the soupy oblivion
from whence we came.

with less than a whimper,
more of an apathetic sigh.
as we watch the best ever
epoch slide on by...

In the
uphill
struggle
of a soul...

..if
I have ever done ill,
it is only because
I have been ill.

incandesence...
                     muted...
by the ravages of time.

sitting oh, so, carefully,
                               darned,
                      designer clothes.

still hauntingly beautiful,
                                          but...
more haunted,
                     by beauty lost....

elegenty arrayed,
                      trying to hide,
sun blemished,            
                   wrinkled, skin...
                                        away..
behind a mask,
            ..of make up
                         and geneality,
                      expertly applied

conversely,
doing more to display,
                              than deny,
the decades of living,
that had sailed....
                        blithely on by.

mutton....
            dressed as lamb
and mutton...
                 led to the slaughter
as she awaits,
             the loving embrace,
of her exquisitely beautiful...          
                                   daughter.

and while she does not...
                                 begrude
her daughter beauty....

she despises herself
              and the world she
                                   inhabits...
the world in which
                             beauty
is the beginning,
                         the middle
                              and the end.

so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"

The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"

And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"

on the desk,
lies a mountain of words.
peaks and valleys
of thought,
tortured or crafted,
into a landscape.

sometimes rich
and sometimes barren

i and my trusty pen,
Red,
must find trails and pathways,
again and again....

with just coffee and biscuits,
on which to survive.
we must criss cross
these foothills and
mountain peaks.

we search for,
inspired thought
and new ground broken.

i am pilgrim...once again.