I feeleth so anxious as the fleshy winds outside,
Invisible as their turquoise screams, I feeleth like everything is just not right;
Ah, but how if even all later suns shan't be fair,
And t'is passivity shan't ever be bound to fade?
For my soul declares-t'at he, it wants not any more to care;
And about thee only, it wants to be quiet, yet witty still-like yon pale lovesick summer glade;
I want to attach myself to our captivated hours right now;
With thee in my lap, and thy gentle whispers-as today shall be replaced by tomorrow.
I want to dream of thee once more tonight, o sweet Nikolaas;
My darling at present and from the future, whilst my only dearest, from the past.
Ah, sweetheart, why are but our subsequent hours-and perhaps paths, to suffer;
If thou art not by my side, and maketh not all t'is terseness better?
Ah, and wouldst it ever make sense any longer;
To live by him-but without thee, wouldst it but make my wild heart easier?
For censure is to which my answer, and is hatred-for I cannot help loving thee more;
I wanteth to love, and age-by thee, and by thee only, within my most passionate core,
And I wanteth not to understand anything-for comprehension shall but renew our last sorrow;
I wanteth instead-to renew t'is despaired wholeness, and its proven compassion-our love has once made nature show.

I still wanteth to remain quiet; to cherish and glitter within my wholesome devotion;
But which duly keepest me sober, and maketh my doubled heart tremble not;
Calmeth me, calmeth me with thy kisses-so enormous and tasty, like a quiet can of little soda;
Maketh me accursed, petty, and corny-maketh me thy lands' most dreaded infanta.
Tease me like I am a quivering little darling, who cannot but tries shyly still-to sing;
With a coarse voice descended from sunlight, where the worst are joy, and lovingly mean everything.
Maketh me honest, and tempteth me deeper and more;
Until I sighest and flittest myself away, with agility like never before.
Consumeth my greed-and with it, drinkest away its all befallen vitality;
For I knoweth thou shalt restore me, and reneweth all my endeavoured weaponry.
Ah, Nikolaas, how sweet doth feel t'ese blessings, by thy very side!
Nikolaas, Nikolaas, my lover-my sweet husband, from whom my hungry soul canst never hide!
Oh, and darling, Amsterdam might be cold, and plastered with one slippery tantrum;
But thou art still too comely to me-with those familiar eyes like a poem;
A poem t'at my very heart owns, and is graciously fat'd to be thine;
And thine only-for as I danceth later-in my princess' frock, I knoweth t'at thou art mine.
Ah, but fear thou not-for shall I protect thee like t'is;
I shall slander thy rival west and east, I shall degrade t'em all to'a yawning beast!
And upon my victory be I at ease-and finely grateful;
On which truth shall spring, and maketh our love venerated-and more fruitful!
Ah, just like I had b'fore-how canst kissing thee be extremely pleasant,
Even whenst he be t'ere, or perhaps-be the one concerned?
I hath to admit, t'at 'tis thee-and not him, I so dearly want;
Thee who hath painted my love, and made everything cross but all fun;
Thee whose disguise is my airs, and who hath ceaselessly promised to be fair,
Thee whom I'th dreamt of t' be my lifelong prince, with whom I wish to be paired,
Thee whose recitations lift my heart upwards, and my delight proud;
Thee whose poems hath I crafted, and oftentimes recited sensibly, out loud.

Ah, t'at devil-who told us t'at our joys cannot be real;
For they are not at all virtuous-nor by any chance, vigorous?
Ah, fear not those human serpents, darling, whose mouths are moth-like-bloodless but who canst ****;
For to God they are mortal still, and to His eyes whose jokes are not fun, nor humorous;
And thus we shall be together, as we indeed already are;
For our delight is not to be altered-no longer, as dwells already, in our heart;
We shall come back to it soon, as tonight's full moon smilingly starts;
And exalt it as wint'r comes-dear winter, as perhaps only be it, one few months' far;
Ah, and be I then, crush all t'is impatient longing, and sorely missed affection;
And vanquish all the way, t'is all omnipotent sin-of having loved only, a severe affliction;
Oh, but under whose guidance, Amsterdam shall embark again, and smile upon us;
And lift our tosses of joys, into the lapses of its sweet thunders, fast!
Ah, Nikolaas, shall we thus be together, under the wings of Amsterdam's rainbow;
To which endings shan't even once appear; as guilt be then dead-and is not to show;
The only left opus of love be ours to sing, as heaven is-so benevolent;
Betray us not, with fruits of indifference-much less once of one malice, and gay impediment;
And our happiness shall be pure-and entangled, like a pair of newborn twins;
To which our fantasies are finally correct, and thus its affixed lust-shall no more be a sin.

Such love and lust-whose fidelities shall be our abode;
But by whose words-delusions shall never arrive, and thus be put aside;
Novelties shall be fine, and their definitions shall be lovely;
They shall twitch not-for a simple moment of starched felicity!
Oh my darling, I needst to come and visit my wealthy Amsterdam;
With authenticity now I entreat: myself, myself, ah, run there-whenst stop doth time!
For as we embarketh, no more worrisome medleys shall they come again, to bring;
And to no more sonata, shall they retort-nor so adversely, and dishonestly, sing.
Ah, Nikolaas, the stars are now obediently looking down at us;
Jealous of our shimmering love, which is the lush garden's yonder, giddy beaut;
Ah, who is shy to its own mirror, and oft' looks away so fast;
But needst not to swerve, factually, for 'tis, on its really own-has but very much truth!
But still, whose hastiness maketh it succumb-and even more bashful then the sky;
Ah, as if those pastimes of its ****** soul are always about-and be termed but as a single lie!
For it shall never happen, to it-who owns our midnight hours-with one promise to be skirted away too fast;
With not even a single pause, nor a second of rest-while it passes?
Ah love, our very love; its circular stains, nevertheless, as left hurriedly-too massive to resist;
For they giveth taste to our plain moonlight-and thick'ning flavours to our kiss;
So at our first night of gaiety thereof-we won't be hunger for earning too much bliss!
Ah, Nikolaas, all shall be perfect-for felicity is no longer on our part-to miss,
And t'is part of our earthly journey shall feel, defiantly like heaven!
I shall be thine-and claim no more my thine self as his;
In thee doth I find my salvation, my fancy dome-and my most studious cavern!
All which, certainly-is his not; all which shall be ripe, and thus fragrant-like a rose perfume;
And by whose spell-we shall be love itself, and even be loved-within the walls of our private haven;
And even then, we shall love each other more-as be cradled in each other's arms; and lost like this, in such a league of harmonious poems.

Amsterdam shan't be rigorous, it shall be all fair,
Its notions are curious, like these but entrancing summer days;
Thinking of which is but a sweat-but a bead of sweat for which I most care,
Which is neither dreadful nor boastful, as I devour it avidly, amongst t'is poem I'm 'bout to say!
And t' mindfulness of which, I shall no more hastily rid of;
I was too dreary back then, crudely foreshadowed by a crippled love!
'Twas my mistake-my supposedly most punished, punished mistake;
For faking a love I ought not t've ever made, and one I ought not t' ever take!
A mere dream I hath now fiercely pushed away;
And from which I hath now returned, to my most precious loyalty,
As thou knoweth-thou hath never wholly, and so freely-left me,
Thou art all too genuine, and pristine, like yon silvery river-as I oft' picture thee.
Ah, so t'at is all true; t'at thou art my most gracious, and unswept loving angel,
A prince of royalty, and my very, very own nighttime spell.
Just like thou hath done hundreds of time, thou maketh me but delight and mischief;
And notions t'at bubble within my most, giving me charms and comfort-for me to continue to live!
Together, our lips shall be warm-and no more joy shall be left naked;
Soon as there are more tears, we shall throttle and fairly feast on it;
Making it all but remotely conscious, and forcibly-but sensibly, deluded;
Making it writhe away impaired, and its all possible soul awesomely flattened!
Ah, Nikolaas, thou shalt be the mere charm t'at leaves my odes too fabulous-by thy wit,
Oh, my darling, for thou art so sweet; o, Nikolaas, I really hath only my words, to play with!

And guess what, my darling, heaven shall but gift us nobly, all too soon;
An heir shall we claim; as descendeth one day beneath the excited full moon.
For he shall be born into our naughtiest perusal;
And demand our affection excitedly, as time is long, as arrives winter-from last fall!
Soft is his hair, clutched in his skin-so bare and naive;
He shall be our triumph, and a farther everyday desire, to continue to live!
And we shall consider him our undefined, yet a priceless fortune;
Light as the night, at times singular but cheery-like the sketch of a fine moon.
And portray in us both the loveliness of a million words;
He shall be handsome, just like our love-which is damp but funny, in whose two brilliant worlds!
Oh, my darling, I now looketh forward to my heavenly Amsterdam;
Whose prettiness shall be thoughtful, as I thinketh of it-from time to time.
Ah, thus-when all finally happeneth, I shall know thou art worth the whole entity of my thousand longings;
Thou art the miracle t'at I hath decently prayed for-and thus fathomably, the very sweet soul-of my everything.

Rise softly, rise gently, waking dawn
And let the drowsy sun yawn a while
Beside me, my love sleeps in peaceful bliss
With crescent eyes and a crescent smile
The morning breeze may tease the blooms
That wait to unfold with the sun's blush
- But softly, blow gently, oh morning breeze
Let the wind chimes be still, quiet, hushed

Rest your melodies, singing birds and bees
And cease the fluttering of your wings
The hum, the drone, the medleys
Quiet the rustling and the whispering
Why gurgle so loud - river- change your course
Flow far away, past the mangroves
For how lustily you gush, bubbles and froth
Shhshh...love sleeps - eyes closed

But alas - the river stays, making its music
The birds from their songs shall never cease
And the morning breeze breathes free
Tinkling wind chimes, hustling leaves
Rise - the sun shall and burst in gold
And the world'll be in daylight's warm embrace
My love will waken yet I still revel -
For sun lights the grace of my love's face

There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air 
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky 

There is music in the span of feathered  wings 
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon 
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees 

There is music in the silver drops of rain 
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall 
Music in the flow of rivers and streams 
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall

There is music on slopes of lofty mountains 
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring 
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers 
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths 

There is music in seas and oceans blue 
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy 
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors 

There is music at dusk when the day rests 
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light 
'Tis music of life that I hear

My warm breath ricochets off the surface in front of me, back onto the skin of my jowls.  I see darkness, but within that darkness, an infinite amount of possibilities.  I'm on the road, the warm summer air is heating the cool frames of my sunglasses as I travel to somewhere far away.  Destination unknown, just traveling, always traveling.  Every time I take a different path with fluctuating experiences, utilizing varying transportation methods.  I begin to float, but I am not actually moving.  It is as if the ground beneath me is simply sinking away.  The wind picks up, the sun sets as the moon lapses into being, and suddenly, I am above a city.  The bright ambient lights are off-setting at first , but I grow used to them quickly. The cacophony of car horns, metallic scraping, pounding footsteps, and atrocities being committed complete the atmosphere. Sometimes I am that atrocity.  I soar down to the streets below and my ankles absorb the shock of the landing.  It's never as painful as one would anticipate. I wander through the dark alleys, dragging my hand across the damp, rigid, bricks.  I hear whispers from the walls telling me where to go next.  I have a calling, a civil duty to uphold.  The collective conscious of the city is screaming to me, asking me to do what they do not have the courage to do.  After the deed is done I melt back into the shadows from whence I came, and wait patiently for the next task.  With no warning and no control I transcend to another setting.  I move on to another life, with no recollection of the past world.
I am five years old.  I stare up at an amusement park, bewildered by all that is going on around me. The noisy gears of the machines grind and whir, drowned out only by the carnival medleys shrieking from the loud speakers implanted in the various coasters and carousels.  It is too much to take in at once and I begin to feel anxious, something does not seem right.  A sense of familiarity kicks in, but never has anything so familiar felt so uncanny.  Swarms of people flash by as though they are images imprinted on film reeling swiftly through a projector. Amongst the multitude of scurrying figures, one woman stands still, like a figurine mounted inside a snow globe surrounded by thousands of  free falling flakes. She turns to face me, and as I stare into the pale blue puddles of her eyes, I begin to weep. Electric impulses speed through my nervous system, my vision blurs, heart skips a beat. They're letting me know that somewhere, somewhere else, a bell is ringing.  I feel the breath again and there is a blinding light.  An orchestra of zippers, Velcro, and papers crumpling reverberates against the cold cement walls.  Not completely aware of what's going on, I follow the crowd and scuffle through the corridors, my footsteps acting as a sort of metronome against the linoleum floors. It is then that I am finally aware of where I am. I am back in the real world, back in the school, out of the comfort of my dreams.  My destination in this world is predicable, the journey  not so immense, nor as intriguing.  My legs begin to tingle as the blood rushes back into the tired muscles.  The woman from my dreams is now just a pale shadow in the banks of my memory.  
While the environments of my imagination tend to differ, there is  a catalogue of fairly constant variables.  There is usually the girl.  Not always the same girl in a  physical sense, but one that provokes the same types of feeling whether she's there or she's missing.  Except for this one.  This one always leaves an ominous, almost haunting, feeling.  She is not visually disconcerting.  It is not her sandy-blonde hair, porcelain skin, or even her murky blue eyes that frighten me, but rather the way she looks at me with them.  Her eyes cry for help that I can not provide, and it seems that she knows this, and for that she resents me.  I have no knowledge of who this woman is, or what she is meant to symbolize, but she makes my blood run cold.

the one positive aspect concerning Tucson’s blistering heat is what women wear on display are details one would never notice or think about if it were not right there in plain view an evident preference based solely on sweltering circumstance is no brassieres yet vogue goes beyond this lovable lapse women being fashion mindful arrange interesting medleys of flimsy diaphanous chemises various lengths of shorts thin-threaded summer dresses peculiar styles of tresses and fairly informal shoes or barefoot in essence everything about women’s wear in Tucson is noticeably informal revealing to the eye the barest facts that said there are those who fall under the dictate of Latin or Goth influences regardless how scorching the sun black is their uniform and finally the no matter what season or time of day hooded sweatshirt set and their hoodlum world

2

nightlife in Tucson is dull for a big city ex-resident several Friday evenings a month he visits plush bar arriving about 6 PM sitting at bar sipping 2 sometimes 3 drinks chatting with whomever then walking home about 7:30 - 8 and that is his rather sedate social life but on this particular Friday night with full moon 2 days away and Venus in his thoughts he thinks to go to sky bar outside monsoon rains are letting up opaque gray sky fragrance of creosote in air he looks at reflection in mirror feels deep depression

3

they are supposed to meet meant to meet destined fated to meet but they will not meet because there is a season for love in a person’s life but that time is gone it is too late for him too many hearts racing then erased lies deceptions disappointments nights alone under-appreciated without love so many years too much bridge under the water concerning her she is emotionally occupied her dog Sweeny on last legs a drawn-out too personal sadness to share besides she is not looking for an older man possibly a younger man who can ease her fears of loss and aging

4

the drainage system in Tucson is not well thought out when it rains it floods she wears Chaco sandals wading through puddles feeling intoxicated by scent of creosote after divorce 20 years ago she became drunken drugging **** until she adopted Sweeny changed her life it is like she is feeling relapse knowing Sweeny will be gone soon she cannot bear the thought decides to start at the Buffet total losers bar then work her way north up 4th Avenue a lot of ground to cover

5

an older man with loud gravelly voice and pink eye introduces himself as Frank says he moved here 25 years ago from New Jersey accent still intact orders ***** martini pulls out 6” KA-BAR military knife throatily grumbles i manage she decides she’s had enough of the Buffet does not finish drink decides to skip the Shanty Maloney’s O’Malley’s glances in the windows of Che”s sees gossipy **** she does not want to run into crosses 4th Avenue looks in the window at Plush sees self-important **** she does not want to run into crosses 4th Avenue again settling for seat at Sky bar

6

he gazes at her and his heart melts she is so lovely in subtle alternative demeanor it would be easy to admire her for rest of his life if he were female he’d want to look just like her but he sees she is not interested in him he looks away remembers the first step when he looks at a woman he searches for qualities that attract him because he wants to desire her yet this tendency creates an imbalance or disadvantage he is rendered weak to a woman’s beauty or whatever traits he idealizes self-realizing this propensity he turns his gaze away

7

she glances around large room notices him smiling at her eyes glance passed him she thinks he looks remotely familiar but the mustache appears ridiculously out of style too much character in his face he appears small maybe 5’8” or 9” probably drives a mini-***** just not her type whatever then she remembers the first step when she looks at a man she searches for qualities she is critical of because she wants to be impervious to his power

It dances in the darkened corners of galaxies,
sleeps amongst collections of brilliant stars.
Sways with the tug and push of merry tides
bringing sweet little shells for someone to find.

Ever patient awaiting its turn in the medleys of planets,
a persistent idea over the linear logic of time.
Its lashes are made of stardust and its aspirations bud with time,
it dreams of the waking world when all is still and silent,
stirs in ebony blankets,
willing the sunlight to dawn and sift to illuminate its opalescent
silhouette.

It skirts the boundaries of a seeking mind,
giving furtive glances of its outline
seducing a victim to fill in the lines.

A tool for an artists' oeuvre.

I'm interlacing with Lehman
again what does
that mean I
don't know but maybe
the answer connects Dean
with Ella and
him with us in Film
on TV through VR
singing Broadway Medleys
in a cool Grandfather's wobble
in a crystal Voice
like Mom's clarion call
a silver thread
running through our dull
tapestry I'm mixing
metaphors
muddling music
weaving songs before work
before heatmaps
Seurat R packages
multicolored modality
in higher dimension
again what does
that mean I
don't know but maybe
we just keep interlacing

I did not etch our initials into a tree
That was so common, so typical
Our love was not
Instead, I carved our initials into a rock
Permanence
True love
Rocks don’t die, they don’t wither away when they aren’t given enough sunlight or water and pass on on the night
Rocks do not get chopped down when nobody is looking and disappear without remnants
Right?
Our love was timeless
Young love seemed so juvenile to what I felt
Soulmates?
Is that even a thing anymore?
I thought it was when I was fifteen
Our love was definite, never ending
The letters you wrote me every day for an entire summer
The umbrella you delivered in the midst of a rainstorm
The lyrics to “You Are My Sunshine” posted against my window at 6 AM
The endless songs and medleys you wrote in my honor
Rocks do not pass on in the night and leave you hanging
Rocks are permanent
So I thought


As it goes, rocks die too
Rocks have a life span of at most thirty six hours
Despite contrary belief rocks die as well
Just like our love

Her mother used to always buy her notepads-- ya know diaries and journals, anything affiliated with paper. And a couple years later she switched from stories to poetry, soulfully but vocally humming the same tune mostly while she unpacked the groceries. And as she grew older she began to bring pencils with her everywhere. Occasionally jotting something down and re-reading it in her head and then looking out at the rain and then humming that song again. But soon enough she stopped, and her mom never though much of it so for Christmas she bought her a journal and asked, why don't you write anymore- and her eyebrows furrowed, her shoulders dropped, she put her hands together and let out a deep sigh. And she looked at her mother and said

"Whenever I'd start to write a piece, it was like a sudden release from all the ticks, all the constantly changing things when I'd listen to this symphony. And I know it sounds stupid but I'd try to feel the music and use it to help me write about whatever I was going through and it would work it was something about the decrescendos and how the instruments would blend that would make my hands shiver until I picked up a pen, see whenever this track would play I'd write my heart out but mom, when I saw him, it was like hearing a brand new song, every single time. When it rains, and you're dazed in the car driving on freeways. Do you ever notice how whenever you drive under a bridge, the rain stops, the car is silent and it's like for a moment everything is still? That's how he is or, more so how he was. He asked me out six times behind the bus, I said yes the first time but he kept going, he kept going and I kept hearing medleys every time he spoke, when he'd tell me he loved me i'd hear the guitar and when I'd say it back I'd hear the violin. there were nights when it would rain and we'd video chat in dark it was a little bizarre but I always loved the way he talked about my eyes, he said they were stars, like an Orion of some sort. And excuse me ma, but I can't rhyme anymore. See as time went by and we were on the phone when it rained he'd fall asleep and I could never sleep cause the thunder the the drums were so loud so instead, I'd listen to his soft breathing and every now and then he'd say something in his sleep with my name he'd be like Kae I duh duh duh, and Kae duh duh duh. I thought it was so sweet, I'd lay back and listen to his solos and even though I all I could see was the flashes of lightning, spiking and gleaming through my windows, I'd close my eyes, and the drums come in tune with his solos and is whisper to myself how he's this and he's that and he's that and this and that and I'd make so happy but there were times where the song was wrong, there were times when the he wouldn't sing his solos and the drums didn't bang on the right cue, sometimes his guitar wasn't tuned so when he strummed some of the stuff he said just did not add up but I didn't care Mom, I didn't care. Cause when the drums did not bang, I'd tap a metronome with my bow, when his guitar wasn't tuned I would pluck my violin for just enough time for him to get his **** together but as time went by, the strings on his guitar, began to wear out. His strings broke and I said baby I can get you new strings, I can play for us until you can get new strings but he said no, he did not want them. He did not want new strings, he started saying this was a mistake, but how could this be a mistake, when he was the only song that did not drive me to a pen. This could not possibly be a mistake, I know our song isn't perfect but it is still our song I cannot bear the though of finding someone else. Please do not make another duet because she will not tolerate it when your guitar isn't tuned, she will not tap in place of the drums she will not pluck her violin to keep the song going please do not go but he took his guitar and left with his broken strings. Mom I had a few rough days after that and I could sit here and tell you how God took away my sadness or how I woke up and got some kind of epiphany but the truth is I don't know, I don't know if he's out there kissing someone else or if his strings were ever or will ever be fixed all i know is the music stopped, and every morning I leave my violin in its case."

And when her mother saw that she was finished, mom didn't cry, mom didn't hug her. Her mother said, "How long has it been since Phillip broke up with you?"

"Mother, you asked why I don't write anymore. Well there's nothing left to write about."

*8/14/15 - 9/8/15

As  the  simmering  soup  lets  out  a dreamy  aroma  of spices,  
The  scent  wafts  through the  nose  soothingly,  
Leaving  the  lungs  with  lively  flavo­urs,  
I  guess  that  explains  why  we were  bouncy.  

“This  soup  treats  a  cold”  
Grandma  usually  said  while  serving, 
All  the  children  cou­ld  not  withhold,   The  joy of visiting  grandma  in spring.  

Her  huge ***  seemed  bottomless,  
Yes,  she  never bought  a  smaller ***,  
On  the  dinner table,  the  soup  brought  a  sense  of  closeness,  
The  kind  of  love  that  cannot  be  bought.  

As  I  slip  in the  memories,  
The  side of my mouth  subtly  curls  up,  
Summing  up  the  thought  of  copacetic  spring  medleys,  
And  taking  the  soup  in  place  of  the  syrup.

This used to be my home, my safe place but now every room has an echo of you, though you have never lived inside it's walls.

This used to be my mind, it was filled with crashing surf and Beach Boys medleys. Now it's filled with how you looked when my kiss broke your precious trust.

This used to be my heart, only ever used once, I thought it could only beat for her, then it met you, fragile and broken, filled with a delicate strength, masked by the laugh of a devil.

You used to be my friend. You'd fill my days with words, my nights with laughter, my heart with hope and though you're still here, I know that to me you are gone.

I ****** up, I know this now. There is no explanation I can give, no rewind button, so I'll crawl on my knees and hope that one day you'll forgive me instead of forget me.

I will write a million apologies.
Because I can't stand these days without your smile.

i'm writing on a white page, i'm punching defeat, so why would an idiot invite himself to be defeated with me in order to censor me and not allow me to write of my defeat? who would write over defeat a victory? a polish woman attempting being multi-cultural over a polish-man with overt political correctness invoked like a virus to no one's use - globalisation paved the way for ethnic self-loathing, never protected by bilingual transactions of the same body kept asking the same mirror: mirror mirror on the wall... are those ******* athletes of the n.f.l. / n.b.a. etc. the same idiots that were caught by the slave traders?! **** me, that's about as much ***** as is worth killing off victorian sensibilities.*

your mr.  
                      *** street name
                      your name ,the town
                      you get to name the county
                      then get to post code extra

and all you get is a taste in music
(https://goo.gl/U5hJJ8)
while the pagans say:
i rather end my life abbreviated with pleasures
that extended with christian miseries
for a sainthood.

never underestimate the irish violins in pop
just because they were never the welcome
medleys in schubert; just because the irish took
to **** down the pole's throat, ha, as said
ha i said ha and took the irish to the welcomed leash.

wrong crew... i think you were asking about
your colonial fathers... instead you were asking
about your brothers being oppressed by
the two empires... but then again you
were pseudo-irish... integrated into english
society well enough to earn a matrimony with
oxford *****... hardly a belfast in you
to say anything except attempting a fake californian
fruit cake colony on foreign soil as a claim of your own,
something or other / fruit salad, freedom to breathe
became your oppression of dogmatic vocabulary
as anything said had to conform to grammar
without any grammar actually learned.

can medleys
be self-aware
could i recognize
myself in all the
people i've met?

The DSM likes to label
everything that it is able:
If you think your temper’s bad
or ‘cause of troubles you are sad
or you defy the moral order,
remember that it’s a disorder.

Once we had the Seven Deadlies,
but now they’re only symptom medleys.
If people would take responsibility--
learn acceptance, and humility--
they might cure what’s made them ill.
The answer’s not found in a pill.

Disaster strikes and leaves its scars;
a sympathetic ear goes far
to help someone to heal from pain.
It might be a disease
when victims find there’s no surcease
from memories, from guilt that stains.
But time and talk could heal those scars.
Taking pills goes just so far.

It’s all genetic, so they claim.
But when you look at histories
of patients sad and suicidal
some things all seem to be the same:
A loss, abuse or child neglect;
much sorrow, guilt and pain abject.
Can it just be coincidental?
And if it’s a glitch that’s only chemical
why is the healing incremental?
Why aren’t patients all soon happy
when they take their magic pill?
I believe what makes us ill
is more than random


Pharmacology’s limitations
are seldom spoken to the patients.
A quick fix is what we’re sold,
the risks and chances we’re not told.

Appreciate the simple gift of inspiration
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Appreciate the simple gift of inspiration
Perhaps it may take a while to wake up
Perhaps you may never sleep and dream
Relaxation’s funny thing.You can or you can’t
Ever mounting stressful situations blight a day
Coming to hauntingly appear all thru the night
I try to memorise a favourite poem by heart
Appreciate the simple gift of inspiration then
The rhythms of that favourite will give tempo.
Eventually the tempo will give the inspiration

Tempos will give you the medleys in your head.
Head becomes a power housing for the brain
Establish then that white light in the centre

So relax into a meditative state of mind.
I appreciate the simple gift of inspiration
Meditation holds the key it links you with all
Poets of the bygone ages that you’ve read.
Like a spark of genius , you’ve come alive
Eventually you may write fifty lines of poetry

God given inspired poetry and it rhymes
In the space of a few minutes a masterpiece
Fortunately the simple gift of inspiration is free
The freedom that you hold is a key to the city

On certain good days it is the key to Xanadu.
For do you remember the dome of Kubla Khan

In Seventeen ninety seven the poet Coleridge
Noting his poem from a drug induced dream
Simply wrote this epic poem. But lost half a
Poem when a person from Porlock knocked
And interrupted the genius and he forgot lines
Reiterating the old saying dream and not make
A dream your master , think and not make
Thoughts your aim, to meet with triumph and
In disaster, treat the two imposters the same!
Onymous with the simple gift of inspiration
Never anonymous be forever simply proud.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Inspired by Philip.
Written November 22nd 2018.

Her eyes glow
Too bright, at the sight
Of you, but what of me?
I can sing all her favorite songs
A thousand different ways, medleys
Heavy, ready to burst
Even Romeo would say

"His heart, or the sun?
Too much fun on the day
She falls in love
With you
Instead."

Hello and I am at the southfest festival in Tuggeranong where I just witnessed the great musical stylings of the Tuggeranong valley band and I can tell you they were absolutely amazing
They played great medleys like YMCA and aha’s take on me and other great songs and it got a few people singing in the crowd and when that was over
I started to head over to the other stage and there is mellow melodies performing and they are playing some great songs like love me do from the Beatles and Jolene from Dolly Parton
And yes it was totally cool,
And as it went on, they did a tribute to the king of rock and roll who is elvis Presley and these singers from mellow melodies are really in fine voice mate, I tell ya they are, they dragged out the ukeleles and sang this very catchy song
Valerie was the name of the song and mate it was catchy
And now they are singing read my mind, I don’t know this song but they make it sound nice and then they played time after time, a cyndi lauper song, they are two beautiful singers and they are showing the melodies like their name says and their voices sound great singing an old folk song called blowing in the wind and mate they sound great they hit the right note, a great pick for this years southfest, and this is a note to Stevie nicks they sing Fleetwood Mac so well and meanwhile at the back the Tuggeranong ukelele gang are setting up and mellow melodies are still playing very strong, I would hire them for a party, wouldn’t you and now mellow melodies are playing crowded house’s don’t dream it’s over and they are a great act to cover the tugs Tuggeranong ukulele gang and I like the look and sound of the ukelele and
Mellow melodies are playing everywhere from Fleetwood Mac and they sound so amazing, like their voices are from nirvana or something
And you should hear the Tuggeranong ukelele gang
Their music is for the really cool cats, from sweet little sixteen
And many more sixties hits and a hit from the jungle book and one little kid was having a cool dance as a monkey and yes that was cool and they sang Route 66 and they even sang a Johnny cash song and they are also playing riptide which is great playing music that pleases each generation and even a song from Santana which is black magic woman and this sounds so groovy and they finished with chubby checkers let’s twist again and the ukeleles were the coolest yet and then I went over to look at sing Australia and they sang songs like I dream a dream and que Sara Sara and 2 seekers songs like Georgy girl and a great Christmas dream song called morningtown ride and they sang Danny boy which was sang with great beauty and at the end they sang I am you are
We are Australian and after that the belly dancers came on and really got the crowd interested in what they do and they were shaking their bellies in a really cool way and then I walked through the market and relaxed with the music there and I walked back to where the ukeleles were an operatic Christmas carols and it was I come with Ye faithful which had a very high voice, southfest this year was really cool, everyone had a lot of fun and I couldn’t see any troublemakers to spoil it for the rest of us but it was a very cool festival
Here is a poem about the day
I headed to Tuggeranong
On the last Saturday in November
To see a great festival
For all the young and old
There were Tuggeranong bands
And great melodies
And ukeleles really playing well
Then there were choirs and belly dancers and kids dancing which could have been cool
And Christmas carols to celebrate a great new yule
And only one coffee place
Out of the whole festival
I didn’t see it but I am sure the bush dancers wee cool as well
Go tugs go tugs have a cool time

A girl runs to fabled woods aiming
to sing a forest of songs.

Dreaming of applause, she takes up
residence on a woodpile.

For her it’s cheap to repeat verses
from popular chorus lines.

She demands potential, expansion
and radical improvisations.

What happens is that improbable
verses pop up out of the blue.

Secretly she imagines that others
Might like to join in, but who?

Looking straight ahead, she has no
intention of singing a ballad.

She sings oblique medleys that lack
any detectable connotations.

For her, ambiguity and wonder
should sit high on the horizon.

She has never tested sung surprises
on a new audience before.

Her refrains anticipate harmony,
but her voice flies far from it.

Had an audience been present
they’d have labelled it tuneless.  

She looks around for kinship and
emotion without keeping time.

She is oblivious to her vanishing
chords and musical silences.

Symphonies resound inside her
head, but her voice is silent.

It doesn’t germinate songs as the
chest of another singer would do.

She bonds with rhythms, oblivious
to the merits of transmission.  

They rang out once before when she
had fasted from speech for refuge.

The songs she dreams of are subtle,
Personal, ambiguous and obscure.

She can’t even imagine singing
them to the people she’s closest to.

She sings to the trees about things
It’s just not possible to say.

Her unobtrusive sounds fall far
short of anyone who has ears.

In the silence of recovery, she
hears solitude residing inside.

This is a deep place where tongues
fail because intention succeeds.

Her sounds express nuanced truths
that the trees alone understand.

The forest bathes in this sonorous
invitation echoing beyond the bark.

The leaves applaud, they wave,
flicker and join with the singing.

It’s rare for woodpiles to pulse
with song or breathe with breath.

They say when autumn rolls on in,
beneath the reddish leaves,
There's a melancoly wonder that lives
just beneath the trees.

You won't find it there in August,
but as the calendar moves on,
There it will be waiting,
In the deep and early dawn.

There are some who love the harvest,
on the farms this time of year,
But there are others out there who
find only empty fear.

One day I saw a lonely girl,
On the edge of the rolling fields.
In a quaint moment of sadness,
a truth of the soul revealed.

Tell me darling, what's the news?
Is it summertime medleys
or September Blues?

She didn't say a word to me,
just stared long across the grass.
As if searching in the distance,
for some innocence long past.

A hint of coolness in the air,
carries echoes of the pain.
drowned out in the misery,
of a dreary morning rain.

Floating not too far away,
Is a lonely maple leaf.
Perhaps that's mother natures way
Of sharing in the grief?

At once a tear streamed down her cheek,
and the mystery overcame her.
It was as if right then the entire world,
had sought it out to shame her.

What road now, is it you choose?
The path of wonders
or September blues?

The little morning song continued,
the sun peered out from the clouds.
And in the middle of that field,
A desperate spirit tore the shroud.

The one that had ensconced her,
The one that shed her blood.
Trapped her in that inner prison,
and dragged her through the mud.

And here now the same girl, young,
but clearly somewhat broken.
Filling the sky with distant dreams,
and memories unspoken.

She looked back at me and smiled.
In her hand, a frail clover,
And one wish for a brilliant ride
On the fresh winds of October.

Do you see now, the misty ruse?
Is it a trick of the shadows
or September blues?

DEARLY BELOVED WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY

The death has been announced
of Dónall Dempsey

after he had fallen
into an anagram machine.

Our hearts go out
to all the poems he left behind

and to those poems
he had yet to write.

It is claimed that his last words
were "Wow...the surreal is so real!"

Now that he has shock off
his mortal coil

he has become a nice man
and beloved by all

despite this not being
the situation when

he was amongst
the living.

Strange what
a little death can do.

He has said from
beyond the grave

that he intends to
continue to write

using an anagram
as his nom de plume

And so the poet
Desmond Palely

was born to
the world of words.

Critics have complained
that his more recent work

smacks of Dadaism
and has a strong Surrealist streak

not obvious in
his previous work.

Dempsey's debt to
Addy Nell poems -obvious.

This is his first
dead poem.

DAMPENED LYSOL

by Desmond Paley
( the artist formerly known
as  Dónall Dempsey)

Deny molds leap!
Deny mold pleas!
Deny.... old sample.

Dolmens played
"Do!" Emlyn pleads.

Addy Nell poems
MODELLED *****

Del madly opens
"Almonds deeply...almonds... yelped!

"EMPLOYED LANDS
- dense Lloyd map

LEMONY PADDLES
Demons LP  -Delay!

Doll Mandy...pees.
Many dolls... peed.

Doll's ependyma
dopa end smelly.

Monday spelled -
medleys Poland

"**** Polly seed!"
DNA mopeds yell.

Doped man yells
"Many doped ells!"

Famous poet and critic Ray Pool
observes candidly

"This new nonsense makes
utter nonsense of his old nonsense!"

Heather Moulson is quick
to point out

"Now that he is dead, Dempsey's
interest in a doll's neuroregeneration

may result in many dolls
coming to life and enjoying

normal humans pastimes
like peeing and buying

the Demons long awaited
long playing 45."

But wait...breaking news!
Dempsey has been spat out

of the fatal
anagram machine.

And is now as alive
as he ever was!

We now take back
all the nice things we said

about him
in his obit.

DEARLY BELOVED WE ARE GATHERED HERE TODAY...

The death has been announced
of  Dónall Dempsey

after he had fallen
into an anagram machine.

Our hearts go out
to all the poems he left behind

and to those poems
he had yet to write.

It is claimed that his last words
were "Wow...the surreal is so real!"

Now that he has shock off
his mortal coil

he has become a nice man
and beloved by all

despite this not being
the situation when

he was amongst
the living.

Strange what
a little death can do.

He has said from
beyond the grave

that he intends to
continue to write

using an anagram
as his nom de plume

And so the poet
Desmond Palely

was born to
the world of words.

Critics have complained
that his more recent work

smacks of Dadaism
and has a strong Surrealist streak

not obvious in
his previous work.

Dempsey's debt to
Addy Nell poems -obvious.

This is his first
dead poem.

DAMPENED LYSOL

by Desmond Paley
( the artist formerly known
as  Dónall Dempsey)

Deny molds leap!
Deny mold pleas!
Deny.... old sample.

Dolmens played
"Do!" Emlyn pleads.

Addy Nell poems
MODELLED *****

Del madly opens
"Almonds deeply...almonds... yelped!

"EMPLOYED LANDS
- dense Lloyd map

LEMONY PADDLES
Demons LP  -Delay!

Doll Mandy...pees.
Many dolls... peed.

Doll's ependyma
dopa end smelly.

Monday spelled -
medleys Poland

"**** Polly seed!"
DNA mopeds yell.

Doped man yells
"Many doped ells!"

Famous poet and critic Ray Pool
observes candidly

"This new nonsense makes
utter nonsense of his old nonsense!"

Heather Moulson is quick
to point out

"Now that he is dead, Dempsey's
interest in a doll's neuroregeneration

may result in many dolls
coming to life and enjoying

normal humans pastimes
like peeing and buying

the Demons long awaited
long playing 45."

But wait...breaking news!
Dempsey has been spat out

of the fatal
anagram machine.

And is now as alive
as he ever was!

We now take back
all the nice things we said

about him
in his obit.

Now It’s.........
... “ Food For The Mind “...

That DEFINES How My Rhymes...
Are Compiled And Designed...

And They’re...
... “ Words For The WISE “...

For Those Who Take Time...
To ABSORB What They Find...

When It Comes To What I...
Write About... Living Life...
In These STRANGE Modern Times... !!!

Because I Write Designs...
That Are DARK But Still SHINE... !!!

In The Minds of Wise Guys...
And Women Whose Eyes...
Are Now... OPEN WIDE... !!!

To Seeing Pain And Strife...
Good Times And Bad Times...
And ALL That Comes Around...
Within Life’s UPS And Downs...

So My Poetry Feeds...
And Plants MANY Seeds...
In Mentalities Ready...
For Wordplay That’s HEAVY... !!!

That Needs NO Cage Fighters... !!!
... Mike Tyson’s Or Liars...
... Like DEVIOUS Friars... !!!

Because They Rock STEADY... !!!
Just Like HEAVY Medleys...
of Music From Giants...
Who Use Sonic Science...
To AID Those DEFIANT... !!!
In Songs They Be Writing...
About War And Fighting...

As Well As Environments...
Where Thinking’s Retired...
Because of COMPLIANCE... !!!

From Minds Now RELIANT...
On Leaders And TYRANTS... !!!

Who KEEP ON Designing... !?!
MORE Dumbed Down Assignments...

For... Soldiers And Fighters...
Who Feed Off of VIOLENCE... !?!

And Hearing GUN Sounds...
That Make People GET DOWN...
And FROWN In Foreign Towns... !!!

Where They FEED Like Those Breeds...
of...... VAMPIRIC Fiends...... !!!

Bloodsuckers INDEED...
Is What They Seem To Be... ?!?

Who Then Get APPLAUDED...
For Their KILLING SPREES...
At These CEREMONIES...
That PROCLAIM... " VICTORIES "... ?!?

But DON’T Seem So Willing...
To Reflect On KILLINGS...
of... INNOCENT Victims... !!!

Who They Be DISMISSING...
As Part of The BUSINESS...
That Deals In LESS Thinking...
And Being FORGIVING...

Like Those Who Be SINNING...
But Then Ask For Forgiveness...

That’s Given With QUICKNESS...
By Preachers Whose SICKNESS... !!!

Make Them SIN With CHILDREN... !?!?!

In Ways That Are CHILLING...
That Should Be FORBIDDEN... !!!

... Can I Get A Witness... ?!?

With FITNESS And Slickness...
Like Lyrics I’m Bringing... !!!

That Are BEYOND These CLOWNS... !!!
Because They’re... PROFOUND... !!!

And Are Those That RESOUND...
Within The Hearts And Mouths
of Those Who Have Found...
How BIG VIRGE Gets Down... !!!

… Poetically Speaking... !!!
Cos My Poetry’s SEEKING...
The Kind of Achievements...
That Touch AWARD Season... !!!

Where Creative DEMONS...
Who’ve Now Become DIVAS...
Become The RECEIVERS...
of Awards For Their WEAKNESS... ?!?

In... Artistic Dealings...
That DO Have Glass Ceilings...
For Those Who Are Black...
And Use Art To ATTACK...

This System PERSISTENT...
In... Constantly THINNING... !?!

What’s Fed To The Minds...
of Those Who Are Blind...
To A CORRUPTED Business... !!!

Where MUCH That Is WICKED... !!!
And SERIOUSLY TWISTED...
Has... LONG BEEN ENLISTED... !!!

To Create FAKE DESIGNS...
That Feed NONSENSE And LIES...
To People... INCLINED...
To React Like BLIND MICE... ?!?

INSTEAD of Write Rhymes...
That Are FILLED With Insights...

That Are HONEST And BRIGHT... !!!

That Give......

.... “ Food For The Mind “.... !!!