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
......
Late lies the wintry sun a-bed,
A frosty, fiery sleepy-head;
Blinks but an hour or two; and then,
A blood-red orange, sets again.
Before the stars have left the skies,
At morning in the dark I rise;
And shivering in my nakedness,
By the cold candle, bathe and dress.
......
A week ago; only a little week:
it seems so much much longer, though that day
is every morning still my yesterday;
as all my life 'twill be my yesterday,
for all my life is morrow to my love.
Oh fortunate morrow! Oh sweet happy love!
A week ago; and I am almost glad
to have him now gone for this little while,
that I may think of him and tell myself
......
Today when persimmons ripen
Today when fox-kits come out of their den into snow
Today when the spotted egg releases its wren song
Today when the maple sets down its red leaves
Today when windows keep their promise to open
Today when fire keeps its promise to warm
Today when someone you love has died
or someone you never met has died
Today when someone you love has been born
or someone you will not meet has been born
......
She
I'm waiting for the man I hope to wed.
I've never seen him - that's the funny part.
I promised I would wear a rose of red,
Pinned on my coat above my fluttered heart,
So that he'd know me - a precaution wise,
Because I wrote him I was twenty-three,
And Oh such heaps and heaps of silly lies. . .
So when we meet what will he think of me?
......
The fire burning within,
of a once romanticized night.
The machete now lies in my palm.
The glistening of oozing red,
slick as the night’s rain,
Only to wash away,
the sin.
The hour resides, the cold shower,
to cleanse the heart,
and it sits on my shelf.
......
Tommy Tucker was a youth of slight build, seeming younger than twenty,
Which was Tommy's true age; like a lone, silver star, apart from the plenty.
Tommy was well known for his great singing voice, so silky and stunning,
That people paid to hear him croon; like honey throated bees, humming.
But, as it wasn't enough to pay his bills, Tommy retained his daytime job;
As lilies hold their place in lemony sun, in fields where beauty is mobbed.
Fortuitous fate frequently fetched friends, some blooming, fuchsia Fridays;
......
This Sunday,
Before noon,
In my community church,
Wedding bells ringꓽ
Rosemary,
Daughter of our land,
Weds!
Grand invitations
......
I was a famous, American actress, who adored performing for live audiences,
In stage plays, both modern and classic, like velvet time, which often rushes.
Rose acclaim filled long, chaotic days, of colorful masquerades and fulfillment,
Like Sleeping Beauty crimson butterflies, on a first flight to sweet enrichment.
I admired the other actors of my troupe, since we worked quite well together,
As the humming, red-tailed bumblebee, is ecstatic, in fields of purple heather.
Fancy flowers flowed to fragrant breeze, as friends filled finest summer hours,
......
Saturday is native to weddings and ceremonies
Of anxieties – patterned in coarse sputum of rain.
My friend Bonsy and his wife filled the calendar
With the uselessness of time, levelled against waste
As indicated by the clocks of dew-coated pavements
Of our yawning city.
Next to this was the arrangement of formalities which
Came with the attainment of stress. They haggled
Between themselves, the celebrants. Oh well, they haggled
For the benefits of the church from which the organ must
......