Goodnight green eyes,
Your dreams await you in Silver-Lined skies,
Dreams of dragons, and fairies, and me,
and hopefully just a touch of mystery.
The sliding colors slipping silently through silky seas,
gliding gracefully over gallant gull wings,
whisking you away with a gentle breeze.
You see dragons and pirates,
fairies and gypsies,
tricksy little gnomes,
and flamboyant pixies,
you see them all tucking away,
hiding in there homes as their thoughts start to stray.
and as you glide gracefully over the sea,
your thoughts start to wonder what tomorrow will be,
will there be adventures or heart ache and loss,
or maybe even a romp through the moss,
you might not know now,
but theres something you do,
that someone you love,
is waiting for you.

Tricksy, you are—false—
We hates it, yes we hates it,
Hates it forever!

Terrorism has mushroomed
all across the world.
Greenery here is not less,
some terror must be unfurled.
I 've heard that some desi
terror outfit has taken birth.
More shadowy than shadow,
their secrets difficult to unearth.
Help is required from security
agencies of developed land.
There they lock up terrorists for
years without trial on remand.
They've trained dogs to smell
terrorists before they become one.
Our country is developing fast,
soon it will be second to none.
Full use of the cyberspace
this local foxy terror group makes.
In this virtual world whose
identity is real? whose fake?
This tricksy group makes
bombs sophisticated, smart.
It targets selected only,
suddenly before they can depart.
But few unintended ones died in blast,
must be suicide bombers, Indeed!
Terrorists don't understand political
equations, what is the need?
Now our Police catches
terrorists just minutes after the blast.
Their must be some-kind of relief
for citizens shocked, aghast.
My little brother eats my head,
wants to catch a tiger alive.
Jocularly I advised it is animal dangerous,
flesh and bone it can rive.
Instead we can catch a cat and
with continuous torture and grill
we can make it confess to be a tiger,
with third degree surely it will.

Oft, in the silence of the night,
When the lonely moon rides high,
When wintry winds are whistling,
And we hear the owl's shrill cry,
In the quiet, dusky chamber,
By the flickering firelight,
Rising up between two sleepers,
Comes a spirit all in white.

A winsome little ghost it is,
Rosy-cheeked, and bright of eye;
With yellow curls all breaking loose
From the small cap pushed awry.
Up it climbs among the pillows,
For the 'big dark' brings no dread,
And a baby's boundless fancy
Makes a kingdom of a bed.

A fearless little ghost it is;
Safe the night seems as the day;
The moon is but a gentle face,
And the sighing winds are gay.
The solitude is full of friends,
And the hour brings no regrets;
For, in this happy little soul,
Shines a sun that never sets.

A merry little ghost it is,
Dancing gayly by itself,
On the flowery counterpane,
Like a tricksy household elf;
Nodding to the fitful shadows,
As they flicker on the wall;
Talking to familiar pictures,
Mimicking the owl's shrill call.

A thoughtful little ghost if is;
And, when lonely gambols tire,
With chubby hands on chubby knees,
It sits winking at the fire.
Fancies innocent and lovely
Shine before those baby-eyes, -
Endless fields of dandelions,
Brooks, and birds, and butterflies.

A loving little ghost it is:
When crept into its nest,
Its hand on father's shoulder laid,
Its head on mother's breast,
It watches each familiar face,
With a tranquil, trusting eye;
And, like a sleepy little bird,
Sings its own soft lullaby.

Then those who feigned to sleep before,
Lest baby play till dawn,
Wake and watch their folded flower -
Little rose without a thorn.
And, in the silence of the night,
The hearts that love it most
Pray tenderly above its sleep,
'God bless our little ghost!'

"love you" slipped out your lips
as you were parting
and I not believing that you meant it
and not knowing what to say if you did
Just stammered out drive safe
all the while
I wanted to lay
my heart in your hands
I don't know if you understand
and i'll take a nap at 10 pm
and have a hard time sleeping tonight
because i still wont know if those words meant
anything.

Life’s all getting and giving,
I’ve only myself to give.
What shall I do for a living?
I’ve only one life to live.
End it?  I’ll not find another.
Spend it? But how shall I best?
Sure the wise plan is to live like a man
And Luck may look after the rest!
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
Give or hold at your will.
If I’ve no care for Fortune,
Fortune must follow me still.

Bad Luck, she is never a lady
But the commonest ***** on the street,
Shuffling, shabby and shady,
Shameless to pass or meet.
Walk with her once—it’s a weakness!
Talk to her twice. It’s a crime!
****** her away when she gives you “good day”
And the besom won’t board you next time.
Largesse! Largesse, Fortune!
What is Your Ladyship’s mood?
If I have no care for Fortune,
My Fortune is bound to be good!

Good Luck she is never a lady
But the cursedest quean alive!
Tricksy,  wincing  and  jady,
Kittle to lead or drive.
Greet her—she’s hailing a stranger!
Meet her—she’s busking to leave.
Let her alone for a shrew  to the bone,
And the ***** comes plucking your sleeve!
Largesse!  Largesse, Fortune!
I’ll neither follow nor flee.
If I don’t run after Fortune,
Fortune must run after me!

the number of ghosts engaged with *** toys...
you almost forget to wonder about the whole
debacle (clearly it's not a debate) - queen Sheba
was right when she said to king Solomon:
the world will be governed by a yellow race:
(coppery, garnished with choc, alter rusty)
no exceptions to the Japanese having the physiognomy
of something resembling all things Germanic...
   porcelain white, excuses for the blonde -
             then the unearthed and then earthed brown
that's represented by all Asiatic hues;
they dropped the atom bomb and we're worried
someone else will drop another? what about those people
who do military deals selling pistols and bullets
and machine-guns; aren't they on the priority list
of concerns? atom bombs don't sell much warfare,
they don't, you drop a nuke you forget there
was a war in the first place, it's called the simplified
variety of the end...
           if it weren't for the ethos of
the kamikaze, there wouldn't have been
a hiroshima & a nagasaki...
         there would just have been a hiroshima...
proud ******* told the whole lot of nagasaki
citizens: our fate is your fate, listen to the credo!
                  first time lucky... boom! x-ray flash!
i've got the opposite of bone on that brickwall...
              i have noon shadow: perfectly captured
like a replica of a Fabergé egg to represent
a chicken! but Dylan could have sung -
    preference to the x-ray and the sedimentation of
bone into the archeological... nope... a-ray stood out,
    apparently detailing shadows was the way forward.
      but i don't blame them...
there's no reason to blame someone that
manages to fill your childhood slack
on imagining things that aren't really there
with Godzilla vs. Ghidorah (ghee: dorris, slash: door'ah)...
still, the western civi faces fresh allegations
of feministic chuckles and the ghosts of
*** toys... cos any **** would be an adequate
fleshy piston for the gyroid stanza of
  being agreeably equivalent to milking a cow...
that really bites the biscuit,
a Greek might have all the theological answers
but he's still sidelined because he hasn't figured out
an parabolic entry into a ****** using
        a straightened Floppy: for that necessary
arousal being satiated... come to think of
it: god would be better pleased with an argument
than a woman pleased with an orgsam
that might lead to the lost argument for god...
it's not enough that a tornado doesn't make it easier,
they apparently "do" too;
most of the jokes come as no surprise:
   mine's still alive.
                              it's still ghosts in *** toys...
           you got to look at ******* as a quasi-
Attenborough moment of curiosity,
      does it get me wired for a marriage? not really...
does it bewilder me thoroughly? of course it does...
          ghosts in *** toys...
                          could this turn into something
quintessentially dictatorial? probably...
          there's no point thinking you're right
if you don't allow the other person to speak out...
  and on that note... dialectics is interested in only
two people having a debate...
              not necessarily an argument...
debates only exist between two opposites of a required
conceit to be levelled and a plateau to be trodden...
   dialectics is never an en masse concern for vitality,
dialectics is not theatre,
       but as it stands, dialectics is misunderstood as
a theatrical attempt to achieve a congenial
narrative where everywhere is informed (consensus
omni)...
              clearly Socrates is Socrates (misanthropic)
and Shakespeare is Shakespeare (artsy fartsy):
the former needs a stranger and a park bench...
the latter needs a stage and a theatre and commotion;
thinking the two will unite is already a prerequisite
of dictatorial rule...
                                   additionally?
you can't learn dialectics from the direct source that
discloses the existence of such a medium...
not Plato... and i'm not saying that i know it:
but i'm saying that no slogan chanted in a march
   will create a less embittered narrative than
my own mind might already provide.
ghosts in *** toys, boney *****,
       **** tricksy risque (or if it would be worthwhile
to be born with the pleasurable **** experience gene);
              which amounts to one billion Chinese
doing it right...
       i wish i was born into a family of seven siblings...
then at least i might have, what is known as:
        a western acquisition of a satiable sense of humour;
the "hey man!" sort of attitude that states that all
operatic endeavours have to be relegated to a tone
above the castrato: namely chipmunk.

I have a secret, you see
And it is all about me
Though not like it’s very hidden.
I’m an imp, if you wish it,
I do tend to fidget
But I do so rather quietly.
Silent footsteps behind you,
Now sneaking isn’t meant to
Scare when my approach comes nearer.
I might give you a *****
And you’ll jump like a kook,
But try not to be so surprised.
There will be a next time
Do not make it a crime
When I appear out of nowhere.

It’s the ideas that I plant
Inside heads when I can’t
Act on such good tricks to be played.
Tie his laces to chairs
Not a classmate will care,
And Teacher blames only the boy.
This, but one example,
Of things that I’m ample
To come up with everyday.
Now if you’re real careful
And seem quite delightful,
I’ll just have to let you be,
Although Tricksy Grandma did name me.

your hate my friend
rings more true
than your concern
ever did

lately your
devious
cunning and
withdrawn  

darkness
of desire
and lust
bursts

enveloping
you in
lurid
colours

gliding
away from
your tricksy
innards

mimicked,
withdrawn,
bulbous,
your guttered

hatred and
ignorance so
pronounced
nothing

could have
been more
stark
but this

clear, dire,
directed
detest
my friend

Down, down the rabbit hole,
Into a world marred with blandness.
It's a silly little place,
Quite very queer,
All colored grey and flavored with sadness.
The tears trickle down and turn into streams,
Subtly washing away my dreams.
Always the martyr,
I chose this fate.
Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.
Some choose with a bullet and a frown.
The petals are soft
The petals are nice
Secretly laced with cyanide.
Tricksy little place,
Quite very queer,
Down, Down the rabbit hole,
Into the world filled with blackness.

Will I ever define love?
The trouble with this, twisty-fickle-phenomena,
This, celebrated emotion – and it is just an emotion,
This, elusive heart-thrumming, head-spinning, pleasure,
A pleasure not even eclipsed by unmatched wealth,
Not surpassed by the most prized possessions.

In fact, even prized possessions, coveted things of beauty,
(Insignificant as they are to the wise and knowledgeable,)
Have an attachment akin to love, a kind of love, I suppose,
At least to those dumb enough to think possessions are special,
Who no doubt gaze longingly at what is simply ‘a thing’.

Maybe a rare ‘thing’, but ‘a thing’ all the same,
No, I’m talking of love for another, caring affection,
Adoring eyes for a living breathing creature,
Maybe even an animal, a pet, but more so,
The love of another human, a special person.

This is a little ‘tricksy’ is it not? Hmm? Yes,
For such a love encompasses many things,
Often runs riot in the mind, tingling the nerves,
Experiencing loyalty, betrayal, honour, slyness,
Sacrifice, greed, trust, duplicity, selfishness, sharing,
Because, well, one never knows, not really, no.

This magical dreamlike emotion, and it is an emotion,
Is different for us all, for one person's love,
Can be another’s flight of fancy, an escapism,
For some, it is a lethal weapon, so deadly, so cruel,
While for others, it is the most beautiful thing on Earth,
Yet, it inspires the most horrendous fits of jealousy known.

Love, real love, imagined love, astral love,
Consummated and unconsummated love,
Love of the heart, love of the mind, love of dreams,
All, are in reality, true enigmas, beyond explanation,
I am in love, I am a lover, I adore love, all kinds of love,
I fall in and out of love, as do many, I know love,
I can sense, touch, taste, even smell love,
And yet, for all of this, I wonder,
Will I ever define love?

©Paul Chafer 2014

your hate my friend
rings more true
than your concern
ever did

lately your
devious
cunning and
withdrawn  

darkness
of desire
and lust
bursts

enveloping
you in
lurid
colours

gliding
away from
your tricksy
innards

mimicked,
withdrawn,
bulbous,
your guttered

hatred and
ignorance so
pronounced
nothing

could have
been more
stark
but this

clear, dire,
directed
detest
my friend

your hate my friend
make murky islands,
rake dead leaves,
but make not you

remember the moment
you lost yourself, from
quiet wisdom to animal
stench, unquenchable

your hate my friend
defeated you and
you need no more
defeating within

your hate my friend

Fae tricksy games
Fantasy trip deadly

Look--
You took a book,
Filled the pages with your wages
Of sixteen silver sages--
What does it mean to me?
Fire prints, laundry lints,
The phone call that made me fall.
Walk down that hall where I feel so small.
That tricksy pixie lightened, tightened
The reigns in the rain I fell through a drain
Wish I could go insane.
Our feet in the mud, I watched
Throne of Blood,
The Fallen City of Ludd
Come back to me
Come Back To Me.
I'm a hack a washed up sack
On a beach I feel that leech
Begin to teach me the meaning
Of screaming
Out my emotional, devotional
Love for you.
Please be happy,
My thoughts are sappy.
I lap the sap, feel like crap,
Mazed in a trap,
There's no going back.
Forward.....
Motion.
My devotion like the ocean ends at the shore
I am a *****.
Difficult rhymes for difficult times
Leaning on a crutch
"The human mind can only stand so much"
I would
Do anything I could
To make it good
For us to be--like the sea--
Crashing
Together
Forever
Whenever
You wanted.

I visit you in dreams,
and my visit is always unexpected.
I’m always excited and more
than a little apprehensive.

In dream variations, your reactions shuffle
like poker cards - you’re surprised and pleased,
or wary, or even politely disappointed.

Dreams can be a harsh mirror and as in real life,
my emotions are poorly protected.

Brushstrokes of truth hide behind the
tricksy falsehoods of dream-scapes. After all,
I’m an unworthy suitor in practically every way.

In the real world, I’m sure early, favorable
impressions would fade to inevitable boredom.
I have that effect on adults - I’ve seen it
- a quick nod my way and I become invisible.

I should be a bank robber - “What did the
robber look like?” the police would ask.
“Well... the teller would say,” fading off to vagueness.

I could stand right there looking at my phone.

“Did YOU see anything?” The cop would ask me.
“I was playing candy crush...” I’d begin,
but the cop would walk distractedly away.

By the time they got the video evidence, I’d be long gone.