At water’s edge, just within reach,
a crisp new heart I’ll do.
Our names will go inside this heart,
initials holding hands.
What could look like a piece of art
it’s feelings writ’ in sand.
And when the tide takes it away
to leave an empty space.
Our heart lives on, we are okay,
I see your lovely face.
So, let me draw in our sand
the same heart every day –
why don’t you come, give me a hand
and never go away?
as some of us drink noble wineand others shudder at the costthus are condemned to drink inferiorand cheap, half rotten stuff from casksperhaps they know we are superiorand even if they don a maskthey still remain right near the gutterfrom where they aim to, some day riseyet those of us condemned to stutterwould, in this…
Or appreciate anyBeauty, properly.So with the mind’s pace.The eye of the soul needsTo rise up in tranquility,To look past ruffles and lace.Into beauty’s soul,Taste its nectarAnd inhale its fragrance,Then be caressed byA rainbow of calm.A co-production byFay SlimmandHerbert Nehrlich
One day the door stayed open longerand being young the bird felt strongerthan anything around the place.So he eloped, and just in casethat humans with their crazy habitscame after him like silly rabbitshe armed himself with one big weightand off he flew, now tempting fate.The lady of the house came runningand saw the bird with…
It was a German train of punctuality,a trait one did expect but not that day.A little longer was not in the cards.Although prepared to take the awkwardnessof a departure from the comfy presentinto a future of wholly unknoweable dimension,no tears were visible or felt, not yet.And not a tad of melancholy seen.As doors clanged shut,…
Take your eyes now off the action, tend your garden or your homequickly slips another fraction, OFF, why not a metronome?Tireless your heart is beating, oxygen flows in and fades,go, my friend, another meeting, this time it’s the Everglades.Take with hands the gods once gave you, never mind those hungry eyessee the clock, it cannot…
your son the poet!So when you lookat the five hundred,they have been fixed,so says Poo-hound.So if they havegiven the hatredI would be downby many notches.Judge for yourselvesand read my poemsI’ll try to write themin better style,and in the endwe will sing praisesfor those whose poemsdied with them.
