and all around me
were poets from many lands.
We sat in a circle e
ach of us holding another’s hand.
We talked about our writing,
we talked about our lives,
and we talked about our families,
our husbands and our wives.
There was no strife between us
as we were all friends.
Each had a smile upon their face
as we sat there holding hands.
Then all too soon,
the dream was over
and we all went our separate ways,
each of us wanting
to meet up on another day.
To dwell on dreams
it always has
created undue tensions.
I can’t explain the contents now,
perhaps I never will.
But I remember very clearly how,
that all was very, very still.
And Hannibal was ante portas.
The dream then ended
quite befitting,
it was when in my veggie garden
the Kookaburras started s(h) itting.
And then they started laughing.
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A satisfying dream.
A dream of justice and
righteousness.
So, here I stood,
horsewhipping
a cowardly soul
with a large wet rag.
The rag was called
INNUENDO.
And the cowardly soul
looked like a pathetic
old spinster whose
belt had fallen off,
exposing soiled nickers
and hidden knives
dangling.
In the background
one could see
what appeared to be
a fire.
Only smoke was visible.
But then, as the screams
of the victim echoed
back from the Hills
of Deception and
Cowardice,
it became obvious that
there was no fire.
The smoke was coming
from a Texas smoke machine.