composed on the run in chat Beau's "Off the cuff" chat

I need a longer extension
and it's not just anal retention
if the connection is broken
there's no adequate token
for means of seeking redemption

Every little extra pound
is good to have when winds blow cold
they're not so great to have around
when summer comes or one grows old

Political Pandering

Spare a dollar, spare a dime
Come sit down and waste your time
Listen to the mastery
Of lying faces, politically

We'll do this, we'll do that
Come on up and fill the hat
We'll say one thing and do another
Hopes and dreams we're bound to smother

Spare a dollar, spare a twenty
Put it in, we'll spend plenty
We don't bother to even try
Pay no attention to our lie.

a harsh skim of sun
has found the bare
thin wonder

the down nadir of dusk
and twilights rush
the dance
and tingle

before the gates of blue
that lay poised beyond
the transom of the window

a weight of an ocean
light as the ghost word
etched
reverse
in the spillway of hearts
beating like a dark
drum

milileu minuet

In silence
I confide,
To a friend
I dare not,
I bit my lip
To stop myself
from opening
The door shut closed.
No...not before a strange
Or a confidante even,
No one must know!
I clung to one thing,
A coin of no value
To be exchanged
For a piece of bread
To satisfy this hunger
And silence the voices
Shouting back.
I dare not beg.
I am poor
But a beggar
I refuse!
For hunger,
A bread.
For thirst,
My tears.
For solitude,

very beautiful we also let
our kids do and follow
at safe distance
as you are from Canada you know
half the year
we cut grass,
the other half we clear snow
all our cash earnings
out they flow
and
all don't have engineering firms
that of course you know

suffuse
velvet violence
grease written stanza

a curled finger of blue
bleeds to heaven
from a smoulder tip

words breathless
swollen lip
sharp and brilliance
this moon
cutting
a slit
through the thick

acrimony
pressed
and leather bound

Pale and parched
on nicotine plans
Sterling ringed
hands

She was born into death
Mother died shortly
Before her first breath

Baby girl taken
From the womb
A little too soon
Left In her Father's care

A husband's grief
Too much to bare
His only love
Gone forever
The madness crept in

Once upon a time
He had been a normal man

All he had left
Was this little angel
Whom he loved
In more ways
Than a father should

He molded her
Styling her hair
Painting her face
Recreating another time
Another place

A ghost always chases me
from place to place.
I see its body
but never its face.

It often grows tall,
of my size or short,
with a shadowy trace
that none ever caught.

I'd stop and ask,
though I'll never know,
for it never says
if it's friend or foe.

Canto One ~ In the heart of the City of Laura, beneath Torgándon and its White Salt Mists, a glittering, cream white colored spire stands flawlessly straight and reaching tall enough to be shroud most mornings in the swirling clouds that so often blanket the North Country. It is The Cornicle of the King and has stood, by men’s reckoning, more than a thousand years, but the reckoning of common men is short.