San Francisco dear you have been my dream since I first played the music of Joplin and Hendrix and others who have found creativity in your streets
San Francisco dear your never boring I walked for miles around the Castro, golden gate and high on Haight-Ashbury. Then rested on a bench in the mission.
San Francisco dear your beatiful your buildings of your colour and the lady’s in a row bring many travels to gape at their splender. Your streets are uneaven but breaths character into your attire.
San Francisco dear your emotions are shown with weather cold fog blows in when your feeling downcast yet you soon perk up when the suns shines on the park and the botanical garden blooms and radiates in your smile.
San Francisco dear your a muse for poets, musician, artists and anyone who steps in your ground. Your the beacon on inspiration that is projected across the city from fisherman’s warf to the Palace of Fine Arts to telegraph hill.
San Francisco dear always stay true I love you so.
Two months gone though feels like non
Vacation they say I was on a holiday
The land of the American dream
Was filled with miles landscapes of fantasy
I seen the canyon, the mountains, deserts to Forrest’s and even from above and on the marsh lands of the Orange County.
I met many travelers like myself and those who wanted to travel but found it in a needle on a cold park bench.
I wouldn’t trade my experience for the world. But two months away from my family is done and one hug means I’ve gone back home
Lucky number, number three
All good things come in three’s
Like three wise men and three blind mice
If you loose one, you still have twice
One dear friend and one a spare
Though no need for you to stay
However if you go we loose our luck.
Though you may not need them all the time the feeling without slows time
The cat sits on a mat,
Rather then a hat.
Which belonged to batt
who insisted that he couldn’t stay and chat
As he was trying to buy a flat.
The cat who sat on the mat thought
why I’m I a cat, he said feeling distraught
I’m not interesting at all. All I do is sought
Vengeance on mouse who fought
For a house.
I know longer want to be cat who sits on a mat
To be a poet is the end goal you achieved it
What did I acheive?
You reincarnated me,
not as a animal or a human.
Not even a life form for that matter,
But you put me in a sonnet in a cluster of words.
I’m not religious as such but
my god poets can resurrect.
Feeling in a simple rhythm
The physicality of it is uncanny
Words that I wish would slip past my tongue.
My god poets can resurrect.
What pleasure is must be to bloom so sweetly.
Does the words come quickly?
Once I find my hand,fingers and knuckles.
Pen to paper, finger to lips would it come naturally?
We will see if I can bring air back into lungs deflated by time.
May I stumble to present my work.
Or hold my tongue as they look at the beginning.
My god poets can resurrect.
Must I find sense of place?
Drip a cigarette between my fingers
Papered apartment full of hero’s of song,who now quite as you write the new.
Ability coming naturally you insisted.
Do I not need a Parisan perspective.
Or do I need ordinary to flourish private extraordinary.
My god poets,poets...can
The poem is about a person wanting to be a poet and wondering if they should be like some of the great poets or just be themselves
As the sun rises, the stars wash away
Around then down the bath plug followed by the moon.
Though when day is clean out comes the plug then down goes sun,
ready for moon and stars to have their twilight bath.
The poem is about just ending of a day then the beginning of a new day
Steal a conversation
Steal a feeling
Steal a memory
Bring me the saying of lust
Bring me the feeling of passion
Bring thoughts to cherish
Desperation of affection
Humiliation of isolation
Obligation to love me
Steal my heart
Steal my soul
Steal my body
For yours in return
— The End —