moon light walks the floor
this haze walking
the fog of light beneath the door

this flight we live
our life like wings
draped against the perfumed
slumber skin
the warmth of sheets
a skein against us

folded in its corners like secret ideals

I hear between the tics and tocs,
in bed within the depth of night,
from both the hall and mantle clocks
the sound of running feet so slight
so quiet that they must wear socks.

To hear them one must listen fast
they follow on time's tics so swift
each step there...and then it's passed
flashed into some sort of rift
as present moves into the past.

a long cold season of gray
suddenly
a sunbeam pierces the clouds

why did I not expect it?

maybe predisposition
continually succumbing
to disillusion

but then, THWACK!
smacked blindside

once again,
ambushed by
eureka, joy,
and a boisterous
hallelujah

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

to enjoy your poetry
I had to take some time off

to visit Google helper
to help improve my vocabulary
though I through cerebral powers
understood the import
but confirmation of the insider’s views had to be sought
ere I commented with an iced intelligence

I must say a poet must ensure
that dwarfed minds like mine
need not borrow
greater ones' ..
in order to relish the wee moments
as they burst in ecstasy
the desire of any muse

Wicked woman
a clothes slogan in my shirt
designed to catch the eye
of those who wish to be wicked women, why.

We grab at things that give us patina, style,
we clothe our bodies, minds
with themes that we admire.

We boast of knowledge
we haven't yet acquired,
and hope to make effect;
get admiration for our power of intellect.

When deep inside
we know we lack the insight to be wise,
have not learnt the basics of a theme
that needs intelligence.

She thinks of him every day of her life
pierces her soul like a sharp knife
the baby she had to abandon
her first born, her precious son

To young to handle responsibility
told this by peers repeatedly
gave in to pressure
heartbroken beyond measure

no day goes by
she doesn't cry
you'll often hear her sigh
memories drift by

She's afraid to look for him
in case only fulfilling her whim
he may not want to know
her forgotten long ago

EMPTY CRADLE
[Robert Longo-Geremia :
May 15, 1940-May 15, 1940]

I’ve come too far
I can’t go back
the world doesn’t know me
anymore
but I am here
and must see it through
living not for one
but two

one child dies
another fills an empty womb
so here I am
and I have to see it through

One soul into another
you are my other self
you are my brother....

the hollow ache
delicate and free
floats like crystal
through the dark
alive to see

the loves perfection
succulent and known

Until the battle recedes
no more
and the earth has tilted
beyond its axis,
when the wind
gusts to appall
as in ancient
history,
forgotten

I shall remember,

As a muniment
of minutes
broke,
the sheath of silk
covering my id,
unveiled the majesty
and wonder,
ambrosia
energy flowing
in neon tubes

Revealed
in the pain
and suffering
an atom of joy,

You