Our ambitions are sweeter
than the fruition of our dreams

I imagine red rain
waking the Maginot line
All of my disdain
falls silver in shame
accordingly

I was caught helplessly
hoping
that the harlequins
would run basking
in the gooodbyes

Standing by the stairway
where I was choking on the promises of hello
a graceless lady stood suffering

Such are the stories that are seldom told
Those that are squandered
on existence
and those that are rejected at the cost of innocence

Were we looking forward
at our past
and found some comfort there
. . . what we imagined there

Bleeding me in the cuts of frustrations
Scabbing the shame
Forgiving the failures
. . . and the pain

always the pain . . .

can't you see

what's it doing to me ?

Like good help
a smooth glide  is hard to find

that perfect pen that rolls
with  the flow

of your words and music
across the paper

DÉCOUVRIR LE CIEL

doesn't even know
another language
exists

but he likes
the sound
steals this 'CIEL'

from a passing conversation
hoards such words
...such sounds.

loves their texture
their taste
upon the tongue

he thinks it says
"See...L."
why the hell - 'L'?

can't count for nuts
so doesn't even know
it's the alphabet's 12th letter

but likes the fact that
he has 2 'L's'
in his name

and so he acquires
language in such
little broken bits like this

his dyslexia loves it
that's enough for him
he's fallen for the letter 'L'

he's amazed when
in palm and psalm
it refuses to speak up for itself

years later 'CIEL' will
become the sky
in French

well, well..'CIEL'
who would have
thought it

even now
his dyslexia
that magpie of the mind

will morph words
shape shift
sound

his brain
second guessing
what it's found

so that passing in a car
the Clavadel Convalescence Home
you know the one

with the cow outside
in its pyjamas
and with a bandaged knee

becomes....the clavicle
in his warping mind
and his head chants

"the clavicle...the clavicle
there's nothing like
the clavicle . . .

for extending
the manubrium
of the sternum

and the acromion
of the scapula!"
before the dyslexia lets go

and so
Eliot's mystery cat
becomes

a mash up with
filched medical
knowledge

the dyslexia laughs
"That's my boy!"
ah well...

the English language
goes to 'L'
in a handcart

and all's well
that ends well
even if it doesn't

me and that boy
I was and
still am

continue
in tandem to
both invent and

...discover the sky
...découvrir le ciel
...inventer le ciel!

You dreamt
You Awoke
But your slumber
Tumbled into the Deep
Ocean where your
Delusion soaked
In Brine.

The Molten Core of your
Ambition
Melts and steams in a
Brevity of Being.

Goodnight sweet Fantastic

Allow the gentle Waves to
Waft you ashore

An empty swing hangs from a tree
Drifting in airs varying touch
Vacant in his mind,
Where light shines upon the grass,
Stretching and leading
While shadows kiss the base of it's warm bark
This tree has a memory,
As the swing longs in its drift

This place
Where she used to reside,
Radiating magic and captivating flowers,
Remains dormant

The swing longs,
The tree mourns
The light, slightly dimmed and muddled

While remnants of her enchantment
Leave the scent of life and beauty embedded in every space
Her words once touched