Cockcrow harbour:
the gulls whining like tethered dogs
about rooftops
paliophobic cars and
grounded vessels..
Look:
on the hoary horizon
a glaucous strip
beguils
with backwater.
Not putting on a show
the frigid sea benumbed..
Easily,
with a tail of emerald jelly
skim a vanishing lane off that
lustrous sheet
and watch
the trailblazing mainland
scuttle.

Now,
Only scattered dreaming is possible.

In it's bachelor pad,
cradling over crinkles,
away from the meretriciosness
of validating the real by sharing it,
THE WIND
blusters off any veneer.
Here,
stale but spry,
fare your way around the inoffensive isle
to it's most shyest of harbours:
a mouth full of silver
saving it's breath.
The windows facing the sea
seem
black & white,
their wooden frames hooked to the wind,
the splattered gulls meow
your name
in a way
that's
personal.
Of course comes to mind.
The pines
are demanding a visit,
They're whispering
so you can hear them,
each as different as every snore,
these pines know
how to grow in the sand
and still reach for
the Nimbostratus with heads in unison.
The spaces
between their trunks illuminating
the blazing needles
raining down
painting the ground
familiar
to your lover's
skin texture:
Feel her closeness
from jilted borderwatchtowers
as she speads her mire
like no one's watching:
weedy and sugared
with bellflowers,
the waves in her shallow armpit
billeting a pair of white swans:
demurely they float
sometimes as pillows and sometimes
as question marks..
Go ask the seasoned locals,
they say the bones she parked
when she let her ice sheet melt
are portals
to her noble underbelly.

Hidden in the woods
reminiscent of your heart,
the red
tank-sized stone
is sealed,
but what the lighting reach cannot
the rain shall sluice apart
dumbly.
And though her hair has
come to be
the moss
black and hoarse
as sailor's beard,
there is still time.
The void says
her noisy neighbour is nothing
to die for.
The theadbear car with absent doors
incites
to drive her
in reverse gear
to the first few
days of holidays:
her golden locks a-blaze,
her arm around your
hind-sighted doppelganger.

With Happiness within and within alone
A thoughtful school Basic Letters declare
Was a Way to cope with this inevit groan
Of Hearts' Glass-Strings perform to Clouds nowhere
Why must I consume my time, Flair Phantom
If my own Fright Events I don't pursue?
The Sage has taught me with Eight Spokes random
Yet still cannot Define that Inner You
To whom your spirit, whose Muse you belong
Which Married Moments your own Clouds rain by
Of Good-Caused Country, Family and Song
To add my Themes which your Merry Smile lies.
They are still Strings, though Glassed these Portents are
Unless I cut them, such Mirage speads far.

The little shnurple speads its wings
and sings of heaven's hellish kings
Adrift on memories future flung
Swinging, belting all eight lungs.
Awash, it never comes nor goes
It just is, what no one knows.
Flicking from the back of minds
Dismisplacing the meanest kinds.

Tick-Wicking prickles
Fig-Wiggling giggles
*** for tat
It neither qualms nor quibbles
Just lifts is hairy airs and sniffles.