Sinking, falling, shaping reshaping,
through the strata of life's great layered dream,
becoming green, blue, any hue that fits
with present situations,
ever revised and analysed, weighed,
balanced on the scales of common sense,
and even that has moments of pure doubt.

We've been together for so long
memories of the times before
now seem out of place and wrong
like bare shelves in a busy store.

How can it have come to be
we've shared three and forty valentines?
Though time has been unkind to me
you've improved like rare red wine.

Our path has not always been smooth
as we've traveled through the many years.
You haven't anything to prove,
you've already shed too many tears.

sincere
the breath of time comes to linger
and lay

like china smiles
tinged glass

slide drawer with cards
and cigarette silver case

drawn away thoughts
by a raucous cry of a dark bird
whose shiny eye exclaims

voices from realms
a visitation in steps
an engine idling in park

a phone cell number
when bored for a lark

we wait broken from the spell
the cloy of antiseptic balm
and boiler steam heat

fingerprints on brass numeral
buttons

I pushed aside the low brushwoods new
To find my peace there hidden from view
These many years since I returned to see
There waiting for me my favourite tree

Amidst a sea of emerald grass seen
A seat for me to sit and dream
These dreams to my mind shown
Normally touching my soul alone

I feel the presence of the years
My inner self releases its fears
Not tethered to a physical being
A free spirit climbing to places hidden

Three gay men ,
Three fey men,
They all ran after the farmers son,
The farmer shot them with his gun
Their in between bits hit the sun
Now they're done
Now they're done
See them run
see them run
They ran away from the farmers son
The farmer was too highly strung
He wished to string them up one by one
They're three dead bums
Three dead bums.

WOLVES
[1911: mountain village in the southern Apeninnes]

They came down
from the hills
riding an icy wind
lost in the white and gray
of a winter’s day.
into each village and town
they roamed
looking to feed
looking to kill
driven by hunger’s pain

They smelled the dying
and the dead
scratched at the earth
of the newest tomb
hungered for the flesh
still in a mother’s womb

Nor'easter rough cut blowing;
flaps like a sail against my ear
as I lean out, hoping the torrid trees
will help me out of this white walled,
squared up room.

You can bet on the market, on horses,
on the roll of dice
but my money's on tomorrow:
dawn's dark colours, the ritual of coffee,
the radio with its familiar concerns.

The news takes its place.
The crescendo, as my Mac opens,
seems metallic, cold;
email, Facebook, Twitter,
the scrolling hunt begins.

Predatory
-
dim-milled eyes raked filled with flies
there's no guile for death to prize
one open cog is broken
bosses' golden log token
gotta hire by next friday
just a wasted holiday
-
what's-her-name was pretty good
but now she is gone I should
go to her funeral-NAH
body in a box, too raw
ya never know what she did
in May little katydid
-
My arms around her tightened
her shallow breath so frightened
my hands tapped her youth away

It makes me salivate
those golden
crusty
morsels
on a plate

like golden embers
shiny
glistening
basted pleasure
remembered

carbo-licious
tasty treats
like
sticks of
fatty dynamite

crunch crunch
scoff scoff
the pig persona
plays a
Bacchanalian lunch

A chip! A chip!
My round plate
For a Chip!

bleed thin
the snow wafer kisses
falling diluted
a ghost half empty
Chanel Number Five

a cry her hands to
the ceiling eyes drawn
dark beneath the
brash brows
ribs in the lean light

invisible friends sing
this spinning room
tending snowflake
shadows

large eyed mystery
before the light
shadowshow love
empty and tasteless
a feast for the tongue