and windswept tops
of lonely trees.
She wears a gown
of pure chiffon,
it helps her fly
and carry on,
but what she bears
in secret pouches
it’s words of poetry
to soothe the soul.
She’s one of us
but by default.
And if she steps
across the stream,
partakes of juice
badly fermented,
she tastes the cheese
with its own ‘music’
and dreams away,
tshunkle asway.
Similar Posts
This morning on my way to church
inside my pockets for some moneybecause they’d find it not too funnyif I showed up with empty hands(it’s not that our priest demandsthat people give what they can’t spare)but serving God means that we sharewhat he has given us to usefor things like applepies and shoeswell going back to my own searchthe banker passed, with…
I was still a child
Winter was an icy,elusive old man whopainted flowerson my window.I still dream of themso many years later.Sometimes,the flowers werea hedge of roses,other times a dragon,borrowed from a fairytale,dragons always made me hideunder the bed covers and hold ontight to my Teddy.So many wintershave gone by,all with theirspecial memoriesfor me,but today,there areno more ice flowers.Old man…
He was an old man now.
our cemetary.Pick axe and shovel,spade and the occasionalblack wad of ‘chew-it-all’ tobacco.Fifty years of digging.Where some would diewhen Earth was frozen.And, he had days whenthey were queuing for attention.And there was never any timefor overtime.His sweet routine:Two fifteen deep,one-twenty wide,the floor be square and even.Of course Johannwas always wiseto who was coming next.For some of…
He was humongous at that.
quite appropriate, if perhaps unkind.Yellow Cab had to, orders from up high,dumped him, reluctantly, friendly fellow,popular with colleagues, accommodating.Customers would ask, wait in a queue,stash own luggage, infirmity rules.The Tuesday, when the mongrel was re-electedhe was ‘VIPping’ down the Santa Ana,precious cargo on board, ‘scarecrow’,name bestowed upon, now passenger.Big Chevy Caprice, five pimply Latinos,crowding and…
Said the featherless bird
But the world never hearda more lyrical word.Let him fly to the skykeep the eagle’s own eyeon the whisky and ryeand the kangaroo pie.At Gantamano Bayonly chaplains may pray.Justice sick and astrayat the dawn of his day.
A scorpion once needed to cross
He sat with patience on the moss,observing all the ferals.A beaver with his tools came byand was about to leave.The scorpion, who was never shy,said: ‘Hold your horses, Steve.’‘I need a lift across this river,so can I hitch a ride? ‘The beaver felt a sudden shiverand scratched his furry hide.‘Well, I don’t know, you are…