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
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.
I'm going out and get something.
I don't know what.
I don't care.
Whatever's out there, I'm going to get it.
Look in those shop windows at boxes
and boxes of Reeboks and Nikes
to make me fly through the air
like Michael Jordan
While I'm up there, I see Spike Lee.
A toy-maker made a toy wife and a toy child.
He made a toy house and some toy years.
He made a getting-old toy, and he made a dying
The toy-maker made a toy heaven and a toy god.
But, best of all, he liked making toy shit.
Cruising these residential Sunday
streets in dry August sunlight:
what offends us is
the houses in pedantic rows, the planted
sanitary trees, assert
levelness of surface like a rebuke
to the dent in our car door.
No shouting here, or
shatter of glass; nothing more abrupt
The house in the yellow daisies,
is captivated by breezy graces,
near a meadow very green.
Bluebirds flutter by in summer,
scarlet berry bushes to plunder,
where nature is queen.
Gold stars flash all springtime,
when crickets call for nighttime,
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,