It must have been yellow
But I saw blue
A trick of mind, of eyes perhaps
A chest of treasure my heart recalled
But my mind saw the sea
My eyes caught sight of hyacinth
My days are filled with doubts
Leading me to walls of auspicious delay
Friends of sky safeguard my freedom
Silver mysteries kick-start my rhythm
Where to go, what to do
I do not know till the moment arrives
I'm an archer in the midst of targets
But I wouldn't shoot without bets
Apples, oranges, strawberries
Make unconventional wines
Blue jays, cardinals, hawks
Carriers of lofty signs
My mistakes are breaks
Among fast-moving flock of exactitude
My horse is wary of the right roads
Afraid of skidding across the courts
Whose lips should I read
And how should I read them
Manners hidden between the lips?
Tenseness, directness, amusement
Or just pure nonsense
I will not be correct in my solution
For the lips are moved
By unseen masters
Controlling the moment's evolution
Sureness, Sureness you are a fraud
Authenticating my display of doubt.

A wheel falls off a wagon,
Perhaps an *** has stubbed its toe.
For one reason and another
The band begins to slow,
Then stop.
Horses trot upon the spot.
They neigh,
Dismayed,
Shaking snow from off their mane.
While this driver softly curses,
Nurses a bottle to **** the pain.

Out of nowhere
a thought of you
will hit my mind,
like a poison dart.
I don't know what
triggers it.
Tonight, I think it's
the cold wind blowing
outside my window.
Or, it could be the
tangerine I just ate.
That sweet juice.
It doesn't last
though.
Gone in a flash.
Too small for a
lifetime together.
And I'm alone with
this bright orange pain,
vowing never to write
about you again.

I am not The Last Spring Overture
My birth name was Spring, not Greig
And I am not the last of us
Although I soon may sadly be.
I gave my violin away
To someone who abused it
And died with it still in its case
And unavailable to me.
I loaned my autoharp to one
Who never gave it back to me.
My mandolin was somehow stolen
Off my wall during a party.
Years have brought me dolorosa
For the music I’ve not made
On instruments I never learned to play,
The voice that wouldn’t do my will.
My mind can play that Overture
And does it almost once a week
So maybe what I said was wrong
I am The Last Spring Overture
ljm

He had wings that
gave him flight.
The sun was
beautiful and bright.
It melted into the ocean.

But there is danger in
flying too low as well,
just ask the mermaids in
the depths of hell.
The seawater screws
up the lift.

Fly to safety and
peace,
not the
fantastical or
far-fetched.
You don't need to
have it all.
Beware of

too

much



ambition.