The motto of the afternoon Is daylight through the wind Where others who need to absolve And build a love within Within itself – where solitude Is clearer than the day And yet – when night-time lends itself It’s more than what’s portrayed In mirror – one’s reflection sought Is hindsight in one’s soul That … Continue reading Young men
I was sleeping on a park-bench When I saw a man approach me He was weary – I felt tired He had grey hair – I a beard What say you; said the man – Now awakened – we were smiling Suddenly he seemed to be Clean-shaven (just like me) Dumbfounded, I said nothing Quizzical, … Continue reading My avenue of good
I spoke to them so quietly That no-one heard me talk I strolled toward them peacefully That no-one heard me walk I went to break the many Before the rabble roused All to be part of the whole – None should feel left out Build a wall between us Only to break it down And … Continue reading a window to a view
There was peace one dayin a world where life was youngThere was peace that daywhen instruments would strumThere was peace the daywhen hummingbirds had sungThere was peace; said theywhen you and I would comeTo the garden bloomingin the land of graceThe flower - blowing - in the wind - beside your faceAnd when you asked;can lifetime slow … Continue reading When life was young
The tree-trunk brought him solace a place to rest his hand the man more Irish than his whiskey was not long for this land and his bayonet and musket – ingrained in him that day on the ground called Little Round Top lay with him, bleeding, as he’d say; we fight for that man Chamberlain … Continue reading The tree trunk brought him solace
Oh but for those wild days Where the yardarm greets the sun I could abate the little bird And be the only one Who stands upon a portal And sings upon a rock Who nestles in the silent night Walking to the expanse of the dock Why jump; one thinks and ponders Why … Continue reading Wild days
I dance to the windswept scent of the flower bed that’s blooming and walk to the sundrenched colour of the bottle-brush in Spring. I run to the overarching weakness of the sunshine fading and lie next to the smell of baby milk that is the stunning bosom, bearing. I sleep to the suppressed reality of … Continue reading Seven seas
Can I create more than myself And if I can, must I? Is livelihood (like solitude) About to pass me by? At times we associate With a view - a sight to see A sense of fatal curfew – Of our own mortality Can I build a house to share – Must I share it … Continue reading More than myself
