dusk & fog
shroud the dirt path--
bike light
shroud the dirt path--
bike light
 Carole Lombard/Clark Gable in "No Man of Her Own" Whom the Gods love die young they say
and alluring Carole Lombard was only 34 when her plane crashed in the Mojave desert. She charmed the hearts of Americans but tragedy cut her life short leaving a devastated Clark Gable to grieve and there are many people who believe her spirit haunts the Pioneer Saloon brought to earth by desert winds and that cigar burns are a result of Clark Gable etched with despair. Well, I don't know but you can view her ghost in films such as "To Be or Not to Be," I just pray her spirit...is roaming free. Fireflies in the night
lanterns on the footpath home no moon overhead. I oft-times
find it difficult to feel guiltless about taking personal time on Australian public holidays. I sometimes find it difficult to keep my mixed opinions on Australian public holidays private rather than public. Each time, I find myself hoping all peoples who feel loss find solace. Singing birds at dawn
Monastery chants resound Arcadian glee  Yes, I remember Oxwich Bay:
a corridor of silver in the sea and a sky as blue as the Sahara. We ran into the inviting ocean on that sun-blessed summer's day laughing and without a care and afterwards grimacing as breakers rolled against us in the cold water. We swam and I felt immortal, no pain just the beauty of existence. You stayed in longer than me and I watched you emerge from the sea brushing your hair back with a golden smile, we were in Nirvana...for a while. History tells us
that walls fall Mystics tell fortunes in teacups Wild dreams of love that missed The sting of youth being blind Clear infatuation propels passionate arms
wraps one another in a cellophane romance; groans and gasps pass through drawn shades open vents, and tryst friendly hotel walls advertising blissful unions disconcerting to those who sleep alone, remembering nights and days when gaiety echoed through their lives 24/7 watching solar eclipses though heroin shades dancing among others under blood moons making promises without regard for tomorrow. Let carpe diem remind us of special people-- sacred places—where time stands still and lovers pass no judgement beyond soothsayer prophecies, black skies shuddering with jubilant sighs. Unfettered at last from duty she skims the Royal lake
ceremonies done flying above the mourning queues Westminster fades into distance her wings gather speed protected by her own charter plumage flattens a white arrow streaks solitary in blue, dark crags flash past crossing the river heather beckons calling her back Queen of the sky she owns the air rushing home to Balmoral...  (Photo courtesy of India Today) The double rainbow is a rare event
but particularly relevant as crowds gathered outside the Palace to mourn the demise of the Queen and peering to the heavens could view two rainbows, a magical sight, symbolising a new beginning. It is truly a poignant image certainly with religious connotations, for some a sign from God yet it's a wonderful picture anyway adding to the occasion and as the solemn people shed their tears just like a ghost... the rainbow disappears. When you are old and grey and full of drugs,
And the doctors tell me you’ve not long to live, I’ll dance around and shout “Hooray!” And look to find a nice young piece of stuff.
Come to me in the silence of the night:
Come, come into my waiting arms. My warm body, soft and relaxed, massaged by sleep, my fingers reaching out for yours touching softly, our fingers curling together I draw you to me. That summer, I spent my holidays armchair travelling on every chair in the house whilst listening to travel -themed tracks on loop. At one point, I found myself wondering if it’s coincidental that the most successful singles in Angus & Julia Stones’ back catalogue are tracks about travel: ‘Chateau’ & ‘Big Jet Plane’. Whilst wondering, I found myself raiding the printer and proceeding to fold & fly paper aeroplanes to the sounds of Angus & Julia Stone performing a less successful single: ‘Paper Aeroplane’. I told a lie
Not my fault, it could have been 'til death do us part', But your lie was ' in sickness and in health' And you ran spilling lies behind you. Honour and protect- there's two more And faithful, lie number four. That one's a doozy, I saw your texts. Then there was financial support, You left me with the medical bills and I found not a penny while sifting through your lies. You were broke, you said; there's another. You, with the fancy car, living the high life Deserter, liar. I only told one lie; actually I told another, My fault this time I photoshopped you with the bosses wife. snow-clad peak close by
soaring clouds hover below at last...contentment A cigarette between my lips
waiting for the traffic to clear before I get back into the saddle again and begin to look for another place to sleep For though the sun was shining as fiercely as ever, of distant waves and birds awake to music and rain I felt cold and wet, breathing hard and trembling like a leaf A downpour had come from within the parasol, which now lay in a heap beside me, The end had broken off leaving only a little piece stuck in the earth. Now unshaded is just the thing, Malahide, Dublin.  (Image: David Stanley) Wind and waves greet us, lick our faces
kittiwakes, oystercatchers, zen like herons. Our hotel is by the sea, near my old home. I take up the rhythm, sea sounds were my lullaby, my breathing attuned to the surge of waves - the soft release across the shingle. Home. My teenage years, walking to escape censure, exposure miles of coast, clink and tinkle of masts from small boats. Early boyfriends tested by the elements. I ache for water, the song of the sea’s traced into my soundscape tattooed on my heart. Keening sea birds call me home. My poetry lives in paint cans
the city walls are my pages I dance on the fine line between art and crime . . . Dysfunctional dyslexia is the graffiti of my mind but my soul has to write with paint There is joy etched on the faces
of the congregation in the splendid ancient church but as they sing "O Holy Night" he cannot hold back the tears then senses her ghost beside him staring with the most beautiful eyes. This is his first carol service since she was cruelly taken from his grasp but there's a tragic beauty to the scene as the choir renders this lovely hymn. He slowly walks out into frosty air knowing this Christmas will not be the same, and as the stars shine...he softly calls her name. Seven slick and speeding snails go journeying to Stowe
Oozing on each slimy toe, with many a mile to go. And whom should they meet from a small town in Chilé But a carefree choreographer. A vapouring prancer, a capering dancer of pirouettes and plié. Said the snails, We think it’s quite daunting these moves that you’re flaunting As we’ve only one foot which is slippery We prefer to get verbal and guttural and gurgle And we put all our faith in wordsmithery. Then the grindlebush windchime struck ten to three And the snails set the table for afternoon tea. If I was seventeen and not seventy
I would dance all the way to Brum I would spin on stilettos at your door I would fly in on humming birds wings Tear off your clothes the better to see you Naked muscles rippling, six pack glistening With the trickling sweat of your urgency. If I was seventeen instead of seventy I would dance naked in the street And the neighbours would be glad I would be a love Goddess looking for human lovers I would choose you above all others Because you would worship at my feet If I was seventeen and not seventy. It is a fine September evening
in the beer garden of the Pantmawr with a breeze that whispers autumn as the curtains of the sky close and a full moon and stars appear quite indifferent to our trivial woes. The voices of the inebriated become louder after every drink as dogs reside comfortably by their joyful owners' feet. I feel at peace just for now allowing thoughts to drift like the clouds as the curtains of the September sky close quite indifferent to our trivial woes. |
PoetryThis is the section where fiction prose becomes something else. We still expect the poems to be short, though – sonnets, perhaps, or around that length at the very most. 
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