When I was a windy boy and a bit
And the black spit of the chapel fold,
(Sighed the old ram rod, dying of women),
I tiptoed shy in the gooseberry wood,
The rude owl cried like a tell-tale tit,
I skipped in a blush as the big girls rolled
Nine-pin down on donkey's common,
And on seesaw sunday nights I wooed
Whoever I would with my wicked eyes,
The whole of the moon I could love and leave
I dream of you walking at night along the streams
of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs
of birds opening around you as you walk.
You are holding in your body the dark seed of my sleep.
This comes after silence. Was it something I said
I'll tell you something: every day
people are dying. And that's just the beginning.
Every day, in funeral homes, new widows are born,
new orphans. They sit with their hands folded,
trying to decide about this new life.
Then they're in the cemetery, some of them
for the first time. They're frightened of crying,
sometimes of not crying. Someone leans over,
tells them what to do next, which might mean
The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
1 Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ...
2 Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ...
3 Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient ...
4 Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous,
5 But nothing happens.
6 Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.
7 Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles.
It has been ages since the laughter died, which was many suns ago,
Soon swept away by fleeting time, like the brief giggle of a rainbow.
My vacant halls now are silent, and the flower garden is overgrown,
Effusing rich and cloying fragrance, lovely nature reclaiming its own.
The tree boughs are overhanging, the bushes begging to be pruned,
Like a piano that once made beautiful music, is begging to be tuned.
The fruit trees so long neglected, has left fruit rotting on the ground,
House of sun,
where the colors sing.
and adventures in perfume,
at sunset or noon.
Spring air wafts,
warm through the window-
Peach rose prance!
glad morning bouquet
in many shades of sunshine
scented in its rays
a large one was picked
in the morning of summer
and the mansion smiled
no wind waltzing now
for it is quite wild indoors
My friends and I were out strolling, in a lush park one day,
Just enjoying the scenes of the afternoon, as time flew away.
Sun kissed blooms blushed and swooned, under pale lazy clouds;
And nature was lush in the flora, which sometimes overcrowds.
We talked joked and laughed, in the way that good friends do;
In the relaxed manner of those, aware that the hearts are true.
The sunshine warmed the June, and the birds were everywhere,
I was touring the lovely countryside, once on a golden Saturday,
Lost within the raptures, of languid summertime's scenic display.
And I came into the vicinity, of a beautiful historic old home,
So being curious and interested, inside I occasioned to roam.
Excitedly I wandered about, exploring the grandeur everywhere,
And when done down below, I climbed the burgundy carpeted stairs.
In awe of its splendor and beauty, I viewed the portrait hall,