Let's have tea,

    Sleep is for dreaming,

dreams are for weaving,

threads without which

I am naked.

Far in the horizon

a mighty storm arrives

bending somber hues of the sky,

tearing frigates sailing by.

I fear not the storm

but the gloomy waters

splashing but only enough

to keep me from the shores of fantasy.

                                       Look alive sunshine,

                                   make some magic,

                                   your face is a tragic

                                   echo.

                                   let go,

                                   lets go.

                                   hand hole;

                                   Rock & Roll.

In some far away castled town where pilgrims and priests go to pray and read, she is down by the river, gathering fallen apricots, as an eternity of snow falls between spaces of tree shade. The lilac creepers are gone like the season she has taken away, leaving both bark and stem as cold as marble floors of ancient cathedrals. Summer must be soon though, for the sea of her hair flows long like the weightless waves of a hundred oceans as fireflies from across the water move towards the first Snowdrops.

                                                                                  10/05/2012

’ The trouble is that she is greatly under the influence of a pal of hers called Tolstoy. I’ve never met him, but he seems to have the most extraordinary ideas. You wont believe this, Jeeves, but he says that no one needs to smoke, as equal pleasure can be obtained by twirling the fingers. The man must be an ass. Imagine a posh public dinner - one of those “decorations will be worn” things. The royal toast has been drunk, strong men are licking their lips at the thought of cigars, and the toastmaster bellows “Gentlemen, you may twirl your fingers.” Don’t tell me there wouldn’t be a flat feeling, a sense of disappointment. Do you know anything about this fellow Tolstoy? You ever heard of him? ‘

’ Oh, yes, sir. He was a very famous Russian novelist. ‘

                        - Aunts aren’t Gentlemen by P.G. Wodehouse.

                                       It is

                                almost

                               like you

                               sent me

                                 here

                             to ponder

                                over

                           the mistakes

                               i made

                              reaching

                                for the

                           hem of your

                            patchwork

                              blanket.

” Holding hands was never in our fingers. “

    Hey miss apple pie,

where’s you scarlet spotted tie,

would you give it to a sailor

if he was leaving?

The sun and moon are running dry,

let’s squeeze out spots of final light,

your lifelessness is the

only sin you’re making.

I’m ready to go anywhere

I’m ready on my feet,

wont you join this raucous fleet?

have you someone else to meet?

will he buy you Spanish boots

for the wandering?

If you do not join me anyhow,

I’ll write to you from sea,

send you Chinese bags of tea,

a card from Sicily,

a tambourine and flute

from the coast of south Beirut,

yellow ribbons for your hair,

dont pay them any care,

You are but a harbour of my passing.

   

A smoke dances among the hills

as the sky over opens,

accepting the offering,

a sacrificial healing,

a cry over suffering,

the Fathers calling.

Son and father descending the hills,

forgiven for a moment still,

the air is plenty with promise sworn,

a goat is plenty for a crown of thorn,

the soul longing, the heart torn,

and from the bushes a king reborn.