Crackling. Rocking. Crackling. Creaking and oscillating, a century old **Mahogany Wood seceded to the paSsage of time.
Particles of sand, confounded by the Peninsula’s chaotic, blasting breeze now revealed a shade of burnt tar.
   Outside of the second floor Maissonette, sways the rocking chair once warmed by Grandpa.
A Tactless, impatient, rhythmic Requiem Bashes near the wiNdow pane as the sunset falls Under the frame.  
                                                        ­    Empty Folklore presides like the Residue of a once lambent effigy…                                               SwOosh. Hush!
           Cocktails were a Preamble to lunch like diabetes to Nephropathy.
Corrosive Rhetoric seeped in to expose the ego of a Sommelier.
     A smile would Parachute down when you needed it like Nicotine to remind that no Precedent had been set, just an Anomaly.
                     Cutthroat beginnings, this was no Analog man.
        In grade school his Cosmos found Zion and “The world to come”.
        This baby’s Cradle, abandoned High atop a mountain was blown by a Chinook towards the Atlantic.
                “I was found swallowed in a stained Table cloth by Balkan children on a treasure hunt, with no Guarantee and no resignatIon. "
                     The boTtle narrates these chronicles and a smile parachutes down when you need it like nicotine.
                                          Dionysus Crafted his accounts while most Garnered his spiels with Snide.                               As they witnessed dream remembrance; he thought his memory was Presumably accurate, and although his tales were triFling to the gathering audience, they became his Heliocentric history.
            Calling me a young Galleon and handing me a map, Grandpa scanned his hand across the vast land
       guaranteeing trEasure would be found if I had no resignation.
               This Asinine assertion to my teenage sister Symbolized the Barring of her unheeding imagination by time and then a smile parachuted down just when she needed it like nicotine.


_TRF

Grasp the past in memory;
The present by attention,
And our future with anticipation.



Last week. This week. Next week.
Sounds trite, but that's three weeks
In a flash.
No wonder I'm weak-kneed.
It's a life-time for some.
So sad!
It's an eternity for others.
Too bad!
Eliot measured our world
In coffee spoons.
Carpe Diem* works for today.
But Carpe Diebus Septem
Seizes the week.
There's so few of them.
Males get about 4200.
Females about   4400.
In this light, women don't
Really outlive men that much.
What's 200 weeks?

On average,
We're the run of the mill aggregate.
You can't take one back,
Or extend one.
There's the week-end we crave,
Not weeks' end.
(My knees are buckling)

If time isn't an event,
Or thing,
Why such a cruel sting.

Weeks aren't noticed slipping
Unless you've two weeks holidays,
Or two weeks til... Christmas, or
A fortnight til Martinmas.

Carpe diebus septem.*

The weeks of youth.
You fist the car keys
At 830 weeks,
Then you discover you need
Gas, money, a girl/boy, and
All that other necessary stuff
For the next 365 weeks.
So, get a part-time job.
Part time is small compared to the
1820 ahead of you in the full-time harness,
Followed by 900 weeks of sleeping in,
Babysitting, living and breathing.
It's a limited time
To dispose of your assets.
Give, share, spend, enjoy...
****!
I'll die broke.

After 1300 weeks of bachelor(ette)ness
We partner-up for 200 weeks
Of co-habital bliss and kiss
Before the blisters and sisters
Join the family.
The drama unfolds from our
Box seats for 1000 weeks,
And if we're fortunate,
We countdown: 5,4,3,2,1, liftoff:
We have launch.
The kids are orbiting.
And they will, eventually.
Your union producing the fledglings
May last 365 weeks of meals, deals,
Forgets and forgives...
I digress.

Many have.
Look to Club 27.
They had 1400 weeks before digressing.
****** and Bin Laden – 3000.
So young. So nasty.
Einstein was young – 1316
Newton  was old at – 1639
Relatively speaking.
Johnny went across the universe at week 2037;
Elvis left the building at 2164;
JFK left us weak at 2377.
(My knees, my knees)
Mozart and Beethoven were composing by 364.
(I was reading about ****, Jane and Spot at 364)

Ageing is returning to Standard Time.
The weeks get shorter.
The well-spring of the phrase (around 3000),
Youth is wasted on the young.*
All 156 weeks of it.

Me. I have 1040 til 80.
Then, 1800 DAYS til 85.
Then, get out the stop watch
And count the hours and minutes.
The timer's thumb is poised to press.
Thousandths of seconds by then,
Before the oneness,
Omni-chronologist.

We give thanks to the

Trees, by planting our cigar-

ette butts at their feet.

in time my dear,
the soft,whining sound of

hours
slipping
past your open palms and through your moist fingers

will cease to amaze.
or even feel the need to take in a breath for your presence-

.you look like rain and slow burning cigarettes
blank check. ink wash. arson-ette.

shutting the door on another night of angels-
and other fiery things

meant to complicate
us,  
here in this city of
children.

has anybody came up to you with syntax,
that's hurtful inside like you've been whiplash?

like learning literature is really blunt,
science however sounds more fun.

literature won't take you any further,
in your carrier or whatever it is in your future.

literature is a waste of time,
certainly won't provide you any dime.

as a literature bachelor(ette) i have to disagree,
for i forgive them,
as they could not foresee,
that literature could set one's mind free.

I bet your strings could be pulled,
Marion...
ette.

Raspy in motion,
the scars you bear could, would,
will show me the path inside you.
Tongue traces,
**** this brittle bone beware the accent marks on my vowels;
they always catch the lips.

If there is a star, and if it has a name,
I would never reveal it.

My Star had a name,
she blew across and away from my world
left everything burned like
Mercury's surface,
too close to what gives life,
to ever live again.

the way you walk the way you talk
the way you comb your hair
beautiful eyes as if a angel in disguise
the touch of your hand makes me understand
pitter patter of soft sandle feet
whispers in the corridor
telling me which way to go
when I look into your eyes
then I could see a future
filled up without pain nor sorrow
you walk the walk out of true humility
you stand to admire your inner dignity
yet why can't people see
the great beauty perched as if a white angelic dove
with baby's hair & a woman's eyes
does all of this logic come at a big enough surprise
just to look deep into her eyes
one hand to hold a heart will mend

we shall grow to depend
upon the great notion of love intact
out of every viable circumstance
we  shall learn to take part in the dance
a sil·hou·ette of cashmere green  lattice hung adjacent to her room
pillows were placed seperated by one black cats' apparition
hear she dances in a ring of fire yet throws off each challenge with a shrug
in her world she is carefree far from the onslaught of turmoil
love is the sweet fragrance of her existence as she learns to shun the resistance
sips on her coffee while reading the early morning Sunday news
after a brisk walk along the path that leads to a forest filled with cloven moss covered matter
there in the sunlight amidst the lavender she decides to meditate
through her quaint variation of thought she is brought into a brightened light
a vast orb of personification nestled near a river
out of the vast expanse between space and time she awakes to the forest again
this time with a tear drop in her eye out of sorrowful passions she keeps deep inside
she is new to this place she seeks to mediate
cobblestone lines the forest as an added decor of languished feathered circumstance
she seeks inner solace as in natures beckoning call asunder
the rush of the wind through her hair she faintly succumbs to her heightened reality

My name is Van
and yes, I am in
Transit with my
Partner who is
a professional
Boxer, she has
a Combo friend
living in Bedford
with a lemon
grower, who oddly
enough is called
Citroen. He & Dyna
make up a ménage
a trois, she is a
very well known
Sprinter and easy
pick up, any M.A.N
is fair game, she
would love to be a
Lorry-ette, but alas;
she doesn’t have
a poetic license !