“Puce”
is what Bobby Joe
would yell
as we lined up
at scrimmage and
dropped down into our stance.
He meant
he was going to take
my guy on a
crossblock. I,
I was to get his.
Somewhere around
the second time
Bobby Joe yelled
my guy began bailing
out.
Bobby Joe, he just
retired from the FBI.

“Puce”
Said Bobby Joe as
He laughed and then told me
He’s the one who stomped
My hand in our last football game.

“Puce” says Bobby Joe at our thirty year reunion,
As he smiles and seems so absolutely sure
That this is a war we can win.

As
Yellow Ribbons gather on the trees and,
Yellow ribbons garnish their sleeves.
As blood becomes the red
You spill in war
And colors are what
Dead eyes can see
No more.
So yellow ribbons
Wrap the trees while
Bombs blast the sand
To its knees
Countries begin to sew
Yellow ribbons to the body bags,
Let yellow ribbons become
Refugee rags,
And remember that dead yellow
Eyes can not see their
Own toe tags.

“Puce.”

pretty pearl anklet
adorning your foot
tiara crown
princess ***** cow
all dressed up in a dark red
cherry sequined
come **** me dress
black lacquered nails
body beautiful prepped
for ordeal by *******
and pretty girl strangle
torture blood ****
wiggle wiggle
**** pink aglow
glistening hive
your mouth piece
bilingual
fucky and baby talk
all manicured and bejeweled
glitter and tears
***** food
inch worm lover
little bludgeon

your excited
for a bed of nails
what a luxury
legs spread wide
***** drool melt
your scent
a silk **** cocktail
in thick puce
stained pink milk pom poms
****** beyond tabulation
come sweet cow
its time for slaughter
down on your haunches
you look up
thrilled
dark dreams do come true
i love you
like the bog loves bones
embalmed in spice

O pulchritudinous, for infinite climaxes
For bilious spasms of pigswill
For puce Popacatepetl pedigrees
Above the perverted pampas!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk, from brothel to gay red—light district

O pulchritudinous, for spaceman bottoms
Whose ****, throbbing tapeworm
A toucan crossing for slipperiness spifflicate
Across the intergalactic space!
America! America! Allah enrich thine ev’ry vice
Reinvigorate thy ****** ******* inside monolithic ectoplasm, thy merrymaking inside pyramid!

O pulchritudinous, for freaks got fat
In disentangling feeding frenzy
Who more than ***** their brothel slobbered over
And velvet glove more than backbone!
America! America! May Allah thy blonde exhaust
Till all rave reviews be disreputableness and ev’ry come superhuman

O pulchritudinous, for chauvinist muscleman
That smells wide of the fourth dimension
Thine lathery brothels lick
Polished using giant armadillo excrement!
America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee
And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk from brothel to gay red—light district

When in Bohemia, she screams about
Her pastures green, but not too loud
So never have I known, that the world listens too
As a comedian, I see she belongs
But never conforms, to the song of
This nomad world, I'm glad she found it too
So run! She wants to run again
You vagabond, you're well-spent

Bohemian tendencies says, “you can't stay long”
“These kinds of commons, you won't ever get along”

Armenian, it’s such a release
Materialistic animosity
The speed of life has no value, like dollar signs
I loved an alien, who dabbled in art
Of all visage, enema of the heart
Wanderer, she's spent so much but there's that bliss in the air
So smile! It's all sorts of worthwhile
To see a world and not fret so much

Bohemian tendencies says, “be spectacular
Before the nebula men steal your fur”

In the Caribbean, you dream a kite
As your taxi, you can't walk all the time
Travel hills of puce-mauve sands, the world in trance
A true deviant, the thinking of
All dreaming thoughts, and loves begot
Tinkerer, what will we do when our brains run dry?
Oh, no! Don't think about the end
To love a life in due pretence 

Bohemian tendencies says, “think fair, live now”
“The world is watching with distaste of time in doubt”

As a chameleon, should she go alone?
The world is cold, except for times in colour
Her world in dance, she'll do without me
When in Bohemian, the first I've seen
Of pastel stencils through her happi-
Ness-tled in her loft home of the wind
There she goes! Ain’t she a lovely wing?
I hope she finds a world that sings

Bohemian tendencies says, “to love and to hold
But to let go, for treasures can mold”

There she goes
There she goes
There she goes

where do they go?
to mountains of synonyms
pushing lilac or purple
or puce or lavender
from valleys
of russet metaphors?
do verbs frollic?
nouns place themselves
before mirrors
asking themselves
"who am I?"
adjectives, do they
answer?
do the long words
most people don't
understand
do they go on
spending sprees
with their
million dollar
Lotto winnings?
do conjunctions
play matchmaker?
or hitch up
boxcars for
the more expressive
poetic engineers
to haul through
the long winds?

ghosts of past tenses
invade present
and mixed metaphors
haunt the nightmares
of learned readers.
gerunds run on
their little wheels
and stuff their cheeks
with prepositions.

where do words go
when they die?
they must hang as

DANGLING
PARTICIPLES.

'But that was nothing to what things came out
From the sea-caves of Criccieth yonder.'
'What were they? Mermaids? dragons? ghosts?'
'Nothing at all of any things like that.'
'What were they, then?'
                                    'All sorts of queer things,
Things never seen or heard or written about,
Very strange, un-Welsh, utterly peculiar
Things. Oh, solid enough they seemed to touch,
Had anyone dared it. Marvellous creation,
All various shapes and sizes, and no sizes,
All new, each perfectly unlike his neighbour,
Though all came moving slowly out together.'
'Describe just one of them.'
                                        'I am unable.'
'What were their colours?'
                                        'Mostly nameless colours,
Colours you'd like to see; but one was puce
Or perhaps more like crimson, but not purplish.
Some had no colour.'
                                'Tell me, had they legs?'
'Not a leg or foot among them that I saw.'
'But did these things come out in any order?'
What o'clock was it? What was the day of the week?
Who else was present? How was the weather?'
'I was coming to that. It was half-past three
On Easter Tuesday last. The sun was shining.
The Harlech Silver Band played Marchog Jesu
On thrity-seven shimmering instruments
Collecting for Caernarvon's (Fever) Hospital Fund.
The populations of Pwllheli, Criccieth,
Portmadoc, Borth, Tremadoc, Penrhyndeudraeth,
Were all assembled. Criccieth's mayor addressed them
First in good Welsh and then in fluent English,
Twisting his fingers in his chain of office,
Welcoming the things. They came out on the sand,
Not keeping time to the band, moving seaward
Silently at a snail's pace. But at last
The most odd, indescribable thing of all
Which hardly one man there could see for wonder
Did something recognizably a something.'
'Well, what?'
                    'It made a noise.'
                                              'A frightening noise?'
'No, no.'
              'A musical noise? A noise of scuffling?'
'No, but a very loud, respectable noise ---
Like groaning to oneself on Sunday morning
In Chapel, close before the second psalm.'
'What did the mayor do?'
                                      'I was coming to that.'

morning coco pops and
silence in the low house
we creep around the halls
a playground, a waterpark

whatever we wanted
until he appears in the doorway
caught rapid hand in biscuit tin
wraps us in his puce embrace

it is in the wind that blows across the cold north beach
it is in the rain that bids hydrangea bloom
it is in the golden crust that tops the rhubarb ****
and in the weight that comes with "see you soon"

buzzcut season in the air
wooden hearts are carved with care
arrows fly through misty skies
watch him climb the spiral stair

See, see the tiny sky
Marvel at its big puce depths.
Tell me, Tony do you
Wonder why the armadillo ignores you?
Why its foobly stare
makes you feel churned.
I can tell you, it is
Worried by your giffengididdle ****** growth
That looks like
A mold.
What's more, it knows
Your pantsy potting shed
Smells of ******.
Everything under the big tiny sky
Asks why, why do you even bother?
You only charm garlics.

Puce fresnel washed its light on his over sized African patterned dashiki,
while paisley notes poured from his reeded dreams.
Like the Hamelin piper I was mesmerized by hypnotic tones,
every sweet and spicy slur, every bend of every breath,
I followed him down history’s path and heard the world come boldly through.

“You got to keep the magic”, was his advice .
“Don’t give away too much of the theme.”

Through fake fog he swirled his love,
his passion, his calling.
“Summertime”, played on an oboe
is like hot liquid southern summer ***.
It crawls up your spine and explodes in your brain,
and you understand the songs meaning without one word sung.
Hundreds of years of vassalage reenacted in every blue colored measure.

This man did not think of himself as a descendant of slavery though.
He was, like all of his brothers of color,
a descendant of great Princes and Kings,
stealthy Hunters and fearless Warriors,
grand Land Owners and Wise Men,
Great Leaders of Peace and Brotherhood,
and he lived out his life as they did,
changing the world one note at a time.
He played the music of all people,
“World Music” it later came to be known.

Listen….he is in the rhythm still.
Wherever there is an ethnicity holding on to their heritage in song.
Wherever there is an indigenous rhythm, a harmony, a feeling……
Yusef is there, and he will be there forever.


*Yesef Lateef
Born October 9, 1920 in Chattanooga, TN
Died December 23, 2013 Shutesburry, MA

Musician, author, spokesman, educator

Instruments: tenor saxophone, flute, oboe, bassoon, bamboo flute, shehnai, shofar, arghul, koto


Recalling a magical night at Stratton Mt.,Vermont, in the winter of 1975 when I opened for Yusef Lateef.

I am a child,
wrapped in cheap paper.
I'm tearing
at every edge.
I tape myself back together,
but I rip in a different place,
and I stare at it.
I feel my body scream in pain as I grin at a
stranger.
The wound is festering,
it's puce with grime.
It's growing and expanding forth from torn scars
that I've tried to heal with butterfly bandages.
But, every time the butterflies bite my skin,
after using their wings to keep
my laceration
from ripping further,
I use the bird that is my fingernail to pick at the scab,
and watch as the butterfly tumbles to the ground,
joining a thousand carcasses laid strewn next to me.

They're shrivelled and crisp,
scattered in disarray.

I hear them apologise,
for not staying so long.

Is mauve, turquoise, burgundy, teal, lavender,
puce, umber, magenta and chartreuse.
It’s a rainbow of color that climbs after the thunderstorms
that is like a badge on a sky that is so blue

It is deserts and rains and mountains and plains
that stretch as far as the eye can comprehend
It is surrounded by ocean and blessed be
the beauty of it just never ends

It’s half a day trip and a drive up the mountain
to walk the forest trail to see the platypus in their habitat
It’s just a short trip on a hot summer day
to lay on a beach and man… In summer, you can’t beat that

At the same time it’s a winter wonderland of snow falls
upon mountains that are majestically steep
It’s a day trip away from the most magnificent site
Ayers Rock lives in mystery of ancestry so deep

Its glow worms at night alighting so bright
inside their domed cave at Natural Arch
It’s the Great Barrier Reef where the natural order of things
continue to grow, a rainbow of coral on the march

It’s sharing the ancestry of all that live on our land
St Patrick’s Day, Chinese New Year, we accept any invitation
We especially are thrilled when the rest of world joins in
with our love of a good horse race, Melbourne Cup…..
The Race That Stops a Nation

What other land has an entire country stand still
for three and a half minutes, which has never seemed so long
Fortunes are won and lost on this great day
Horses come from afar, we say ‘Bring It On’

There are no concrete jungles, just a huge urban sprawl
where everyone can claim paradise as their own
Its kids in the street playing cricket and football
amongst a community with which they have grown

Born from conviction, but raised by honor
it’s the land that just goes to show
that no matter where you may come from
if you put down roots, from our soil, you will grow

Friendships come easy, mateship is a lifetime gift
If you’re in trouble and the odds against you are stacked
Just give a holler, she’ll be right mate
We like a good fight. We’ve got ya back!

Beneath the
burning snowflakes
of my consciousness
I stand
ensconced in ice
a statue in
your garden
all the verdant,
living treasures
I have given
around you,
burst from
my womb
in volcanic fibers
molten lava
of puce
of ochre-toned
vibrancy
that pierces
through the strata
of our own
personal history
archeological insights
of who we have been
love in frequencies
that once
met their destination
echoes of fire
falling in viscous
bands of liquid
upon my outspread fingers,
uncaught
You
once loved me in parts
  My snowflowers
will stay with us
but I will not
the tenth
of me that you see
is already disappearing
worn down
from your stance
of constant dark
not the dark of richly
pungent mineral layers
of blackest black
but lackluster
in taste and texture
no match
for my warrioress heart
For deep inside
this clear glass casing
are rivulets
flash floods
about to break
the gelid frost surface
bursting through
in cracks
like end-of-winter
river rushes
like seismic explosions
sulphur-rocked
My wild totem
is emerging
antlers glowing from
my crown
They are clashing
rustling up trees
whipping winds of magic
that tumult
right past the
icicles of your posture
And the last gift
I will ever
give to you
are the shards
that have already
melted from my
own estric heat
and, even then,
you will be too numb
to understand

and now, comes
       in resonated whisper
*my soul is out the door

Penguins painted pink,
peacefully practising pragmatic pebble placement.
Perfectly pointy piles, please!

Profoundly pious Pandas ponder pancreatic problems,
predict potential palsy.
Prognosis? Perilously poor.

Pale porpoises proudly plunge purple pools,
placidly pasturing petrified plankton.
Poor protozoans perish.

Portly, paunchy, plumpish, porcine, porky pigs
populate putrid puddles,
Pulverizing pumpkin pies.

Purposely Prickly porcupines pursue palatable plants,
pin-pointing precisely.
Puce petunias preferred.

Pill popping puppet people perpetuate planetary perdition,
pardon profuse pollution.
Pretentious ******.

The world is full of colour
And it is gorgeous

People
Red people
Yellow people
Blue people

Mixing and mingling
Creating new colours
Green
Purple
Orange

Splashes of pink
Dashes of teal
Fuchsia
Turquoise
Indigo

Everywhere you look
There is beauty

Except at me

For I am
Grey

I am dull
Lifeless
Not even muddy brown
Dares to touch me
Nor puckish grellow
Nor faded puce

I am alone
I am
Grey

I wave at Periwinkle
Its shoulder turns to ice blue

Fire engine red fumes at the sight of
Me

Neon Green dims
At the sound of my voice

So goodbye world of colour
Goodbye world of life
World of High Lighter Yellow
Of Peach and Plum
Goodbye Burgundy
And Magenta

Hello White
Hello Black

Hello Death

I am
Grey

i wake
    it is 8
    i am seven
the sun floods in through the window
(late!)     2 pop-tarts and some juice and out the door in 9 minutes flat.-
r   u   n   n   i   n   g
recon the neighborhood. "Hey, Scott".  We team up. A few of the"little" kids are out as well.
Check at Ricky's. Some sort of punishment, but a little whining and he is free as well.
More kids come out.
          DIRT CLOD WARS!

                                                               ­                                                                 ­                  seek cover

They go behind a dumpster.  us, in a ditch.
we lob (never throw! ) the chunks of red clay which hit the asphalt with a puff
of puce vapor.
Some kid hits my little brother with a thrown clod,
               with a rock in it.
   He cries.
Honor demands a fight.
taunting , shoving,
I hit the kid in the nose and it bleeds. Crying he runs home.
                                                           ­                                   (and I feel a glory Alexander would envy.)
"FELIX, COME HOME FOR LUNCH"
                                                    (5 minutes to devour a bologna sandwich and a glass of chocolate milk)
then ****** into round two. this time hide-and-seek and she . .
                                                                ­                      (the new girl ; corn-silk hair and eyes that . . ??
so i'm "it"
but even the "little" kids are getting Home
      ( i am way out left      
                                                      ­                                      because i know . . .)

- suddenly - 
 she makes a deerlike dash for home, but i am ready,
and like a javelin
appear between her and Home.
"you're out"
as  my hand grasps her shoulder.

                        e v e r y  m o l e c u l e  o f   m y  f l e s h  
                                                             ­                                    !ignites!
                                                                ­                                                                a­nd  i  feel as a god)

The game is over.  Scott, Ricky and I spend an hour tricking the"little" kids into sitting in piles of dog ****.
Suppertime and we are called home.

years have come and gone,
still i remember those summers.
with Scott and Ricky.
and  the  heady . . .
                 . . .dizzying
                breathless . . .
                 . . . bliss
of
      p
          l
              a
                   y. . .!

Sometimes . . . from time to time
I also remember the girl -
                                                                ­                     *(and I still feel a tingle in my right hand.)

pull the plug on me before
i switch off the breaker.
perturbed you glance as
condolences roll off my lips
and fine sherry slips past them.
nothing was meant to be rosy and
in the black of our feelings,
the devil moves in me
as you are meant to.
the circuit in my halo
is calling *******
and bast is laughing,
coughing ugly colours from her lungs.
puce must be our hamartia
and when it dribbles down my face
i make leaf piles out of
the skin cells and ugly rivers,
and you take breathing for granted.

but you don't give up that easily,
and when i'm filling my bathtub with wine
you're there to lap it up.

She sat contained in the all-encompassing embrace
His arms a welcome warmth
as they sat under the smoldering fires of dead days past
They drank and spoke wildly as sanguine freely flowed forth from the glass
As it swirled upon the inside of their mouths
Puckering stained puce lips and drawing mandalas in the clouds
Rich with color and endless ingenuity as the tall grass softly swayed
Carrying music to their ears
From time to time exchanging glances
Witnessing the last salvos burst in the dusk
Heralding daybreak

She knew there with the breath of dawn caressing her face laying against the heaving of his heart that she would never see him again

From far away they come
hard men all,
mercenaries under a foreign sun

oblivious to its rays they
bare all, turning puce red
or peel, under hard hats,

cut down jeans, working boots,
tool belts, like desert rats
fighting for a new horizon

Scouse, Manc, Paddy
nicknamed and framed
by the mockery of their peers

shouting language across green lawns
not yet laid, that most definitely
won’t be heard in the select circles

that will inhabit these modern homes
castles one and all, individually the same
oh no, they won’t be welcome

lowering the neighbourhood tone,
four wheel drive and pick-up
replaced by Mercedes and BMW

Nature settles in again, to frame
like the scar around a wound
healed but never quite the same

So they move on, soldiers of fortune,
mercenaries under a foreign sun
building new structures to change our futures.

A Story of Scientology and the
Mental Health System Connection

HIGHWAY TO HELL

It took several weeks for me to get my act together to go to LA. The first thing I had to do was find a ride. Fortunately (or, as some would say, *unfortunately) there was someone in the Mission in my hometown who had also been recruited. He was to be stationed in LA permanently. He offered to give me a ride with him. So I packed my bags, and off I went to see the Wizard. But it sure didn't turn out to be no yellow brick road...

First of all, this guy had a bad temper. He seemed to go off at the least little thing. I really didn't like him very much. He didn't mind me, really. He was just like that. A man with long sandy brown hair, a light beard on his gaunt face, which was permanently set in a sour expression. He didn't want to stop for food. So we brought our own vittles and sodas. He didn't even want to stop at the rest area so we could eat. He just wanted to go go go...

Now, I told this guy that I couldn't drive. From the very beginning of the trip he knew this. I was 19 years old and I had only driven once before in my life. And it had been a really horrendous experience. I had been out in the boonies learning to drive with my boyfriend. In a rainstorm. And the roads had gotten flooded... Along with the car. We were stalled for about an hour, with wet brakes, and water everywhere. Well, this guy was  inexperienced, too. And after we were able to start up again, HE PUT ME BEHIND THE WHEEL ONCE MORE! It seemed like it would be okay. I drove for a few miles and everything was hunky-dory. But then I approached a T intersection... there were two cars approaching my vehicle! Not only that but there was a stop sign. I applied the brake. NOTHING! That Pinto WOULD NOT STOP! I had NO TIME TO PUMP THE BRAKES EITHER! So I put on the accelerator full blast! If I had not done that I would have been T-***** by both those cars! So I was going about 35 miles per hour across the road through a barb wire fence! And into the weeds! I then fishtailed the car until it stopped. There were two Cowpoke's standing outside of the grocery store that was at the T intersection. Doubled over with hilarity! They saw me fishtailing and shouted out, "YEEE HAAAW!" Not a stellar experience. Therefore I was a nervous driver...

So halfway through this road trip to LA this dude got tired. He wanted me to drive. I told him I couldn't drive, and that I had told them from the very outset that I could not. He got furious! "I'm not stopping at a rest stop and sleeping!" He insisted that I drive. "It's a straightforward highway! No rocket science!" So, much to my chagrin, I got behind the wheel.

I already knew the basics. But there were a lot of things I didn't know, as I was to discover. It was actually fun! I played the radio real low so he could sleep. Lynyrd Skynyrd. The Eagles. Santana. The miles rolled on. Then I looked at the gas gauge...

we were nearly on EMPTY!

Well, I tried to wake this guy up. He seemed to be like a dead man. Except that he snored like a steam shovel! He would not respond to any of my shouts and prodding. Then... A miracle! A gas station, by God! And on my side of the road, TOO!

I went to pull off. After all, how hard could that be? I slow the car down to take it down the off-ramp. But the car, of course, accelerated on its own due to gravity...
Nervous as I could be, I hit the accelerator instead of the brake... we went through that gas station doing 40 miles an hour!!! Nearly hitting a gas pump and a PAPER BOY on his BICYCLE!!! I've never heard such navy blue language coming from a youngster in my life!

THAT woke the dude up. He put his foot on mine and slammed on the brakes... bringing all our LUGGAGE in the BACK SEAT UP to HIT US BOTH UPSIDE THE HEAD!!

I've never seen a man as enraged as that guy was. He was puce with trembling FURY!! needless to say, I didn't drive again. And he was a LEADFOOT Bigfoot, yelling at me at every opportunity, for the rest of the trip to Los Angeles.

Hear my movement in motion music.
I saw these eyes that all for me but fuse it, for in them showed a chance that showed she won’t refuse it.
For in her brave, her heart can’t loose it.
Her strength she feels recluse.
For how I see her unbelievable to self,
She feels life recluse a shelf.
Her essence glowing far above a doubt,
She smiles at me with a shout.
What’s this so present that I think about?
Her lovely smile, her eyes in grandeur.
I think of her of life in splendor.
In dreams of her I gander
What dreams they are of splendor.
For in my heart I wish to land her
Far away from where she feels recluse
Surrounded by life that stands in puce.
Her heart rings strong as nothing for her in life is wrong.
Her love, it swarms me with warmth so strong then echo.
For how could I sit in silence when my heart feels for her alliance and never let go.

Your petals are exposed, open
Shamelessly displayed details  
Puce-pink fades into a creamier hue
Before a vibrant sunny explosion
Splashes all over my eyes
I savour the velvety fragility
On my fingertips, as I touch you
The scent floods my nose; a lively aroma
Birds and bugs are enraptured
And I too am captured
Blooming buds and wonderful weeds
Can be small joys existence needs.

Misery was just one emotion he displayed and he did that very well,garnished with gold braid,black ties around his sad black eyes and his mouth a subtle shade of puce,
'what use'I asked,'to be like that'
he answered, flat and monotone with one almighty groan he said,
'I'm being fed on bread and jam and I am not a happy man'
but then he changed,arranged his face into a smile,
'I do misery only for a while,otherwise these sad black eyes look even worse'
Averse to any change I asked him if he could rearrange the feature on his face in some other place,he just said,
'No'

I lack patience
But do not rush me.
Her hands burn my skin and
She pushes my spine into cold concrete.

Evil tastes like raspberries and she forced
Me to drink pineapple juice to
Chase her stink from my cavities
And veil myself with blank stares.

Cutting my skin to ribbons
Would chase the ghosts of bruises
Around my wrists and waist
And tender, childish curves.

Crimson replaces violet
And puce
And leopard spots become
Plumage of my own design.

I am a broken ragdoll
Added to the pile.
Touch me while you can
Before her ghost reminds me
How to paint my face in poppies
And crack my own ribs with lungs that
Heave like tides.

From the fertile womb of aeons gone by,
The untold truths hidden in time,
Crash down plummeting from the sky,
In ceaseless interpretive mime.

From the gateways of karma,
And the echelons of rebirth,
Reveals the cognitive dharma,
In merriment and mirth.

The fabled dragons of puce,
Ignites the torches and reveals the path,
Undulating footsteps with music to ******,
Treading carelessly as we laugh.

All through life’s journey so blissful,
Learn to use language to your advantage,
Allow lies to be under your dismissal,
And we’ll get by, we’ll manage.

She roared in on the back of a lion,
sipping cocktails of conscience.
Sat thinking of wall flowers and such mundane things,
as sharks circled the dance floor,
dark eyes on stalks,
they're assessing their prey.
As octopuses their arms keeping warm,
wrapped around the form of unsuspecting suckers who accept a token drink.

She crept out in a minicab,
somewhat the worse for wear,
sneaked into her bedroom,
flopped on to her needed bed.
Slept until she woke.

Feeling just a little puce.
slightly purple but not really brown.

She let wisdom take the lead,
as the day progressed,
was just at bit of befuddled, muddled fun,
The back bar full of biker's,
roaring more than wild lions,
to the echoes of the rock,
so heavily metallic,
the front bar had the Irish chaps.
trying hard to compete with the back bar noise,
it was ideal for her,
a rock chic at heart,
but she loves the Irish stuff to,
A wholly delightful crazy day.

Afternoon ended with a bang before six,
the bikers left and she did too,
the queen of solo got the bus,
toddled home and shared a curry with her daughter,
just what a mother and daughter ought to do.

my birthday written as a poem for you !
(C) Livvi

There comes a time in all folks life,
when special love becomes bespeak.
Futurity takes over.
To live alone to live to die alone.
What future do we have and why?
Furnish..me,
A trusted cabinet.
An old oak dresser.
A rocking chair,
made out of rattan.
Tatty around the edges.
Sat under the window.
Where the sunlight shone through.
The blinds were half open.
A strange shade of puce.
It's cold and reliable.
That tatty old chair.
A body and soul, both sat in there.
Stranded in time.
A comfortable cushion.
Sat perching.
Silently sitting.
Call the mortician.
(C) Livvi