Aaaaaachhhoooe Chorus 1962.....201.......

I aaaaaahhhh...chooed
150 times
nonstop that night

My dad
who was perhaps seemingly then alive
he asked me if I was practicing for
an aachhhoing race

I acchoed again

Later till today
they, docs say

ALLERGIC Rhinitis since long
Oh nuts
my nose never bleeds
it only weeps
tears of glory
that's why no one kisses me
that's another miserable
saddened story
Aachhhoee

Just one step along the way
and I pause to look around
at leaf covered stoney ground
where newts sleep and chipmunks play.
Ordinary path...ordinary day.

As so many times before
I travel on the path alone
as if, I think, I must atone
for some defect within my core
the weight of which won't let me soar.

The sun just now turns toward the west
and midday breeze begins to blow
bringing just a hint of snow
within a day or two at best.
I inhale the day deep in my chest.

Silly poem

Fantastic elastic

holds up our underwear.

Without it, big problems

our bottoms would be bare.

The second is a poem I wrote a while back a triolet called 'Old Friend'

It's not 100% dactylic, but I think at least parts of it are. 

The Sun's one silver eternal eye,
breaches the trees tall,
ghost gums, interloper poplars
eye on the sins
of all

It can't pierce to here though,
with it's angry sheets of fire
whitening concrete
and stripping naked fences
perishing in light

Through decades of dawns and dusks
it falls through trees, after girding
the east, and riding the dark brood
of mountain, hood shrouded hiding
in it's silver trails

I am indeed grateful to
Jess
Ian
Esker
Joe
Judy

SHIRLEY ....married since gone
to make a poet from a
Dementic ever born

ADD

your name
if you need credit
soon I will be getting
a STANDING OVATION
ere in thesaurus
I drown
in the deep ocean
or am entitled to a watery
cremation
no,not burial

Dark is the/ night when the/ bombs are re/leased from the/ enemies'/planes in the/ sky

Grip of des/pair in the/ hearts of de/feated guards/ growing in/ might as their/ families/ die  

Talking to flowers for even a while,
makes you so happy and draws on a smile,
warms up your day with a very good start and
always fulfills with a sweetness your heart.

Still life flowers in a blue jug

William Buelow Gould, Oil on canvas 1840

Rotund and royal blue jug,
preposterous, suspended
held up by ghostly
hand for all to see
In antique world, and absence
of gravity.

Above an impossibility of blurred marble
smoothed, filled, plush sculpted paint,
Roses? Agapanthus?
Mother in Laws tongue?

I don't know - what over-spills
your bursting jug of longing?
What stamens taper down
in tears fresh picked;

I can paint with no brush, nor with colours I'd draw
when the night has to coat and the dark has to fall;
I've my art, I can sing and alive I would show
what the words have to bring, and the magic they call.

the days of smouldering heat
and times
the greasy fires on dusks skylines
all mad and weary
clinging hope
beneath the clouds of acrid
smoke
Hatch watchers and starved
eyes still winding hair in
easy twined
for best beset the rifles
stare
not eating coaxed serenity
but bolt and excise
primal run
snatching nights
a painless sun