RED for Clara Bow (July 29, 1905 – September 27, 1965)

by Ron

Transform seeds into a plantation
spread upon the wings of the earth
a real heaven,
where these spread
to become gold
in the markets to be sold

the greenery vast
outspread
is like an angelic beauty behold,
the eye is the judge of all things scenic
long distant grasses grow
as the sun does beckon
to see
it metamorphose
as the chlorophyll turns
from green to gold
human lives to creation are sold
as they turn seeds into fodder
in the markets
to be exchanged for gold

Move your feet in dance.
Trip the light fantastical.
Laugh not when it falls.

There it sits upon on the shelf
battered and worn
once it held the thoughts and ideas
of an intelligent man

Proudly cocked over one eye
hiding the secrets
of it's owner

Given as a gift from his children
That once held him dear
what had changed ,over the years

Only the gray fedora knows
the pain,hurt and fears
it will never show

Thoughts are gone
ideas have died
and it sits within
a grave dark and cold
much like it's owner

thirty three years ago

Jub, Jube, Jubilee

Good old britania she ruled the waves,
as her children worked or died in rags.
Sailors brought back all types of goods,
to fill or feed good old money bags.

The soldiers or sailors of the crown,
were always shown to be loyally brave.
But one couldn’t say no to her brutality,
you served or died, as a murdering knave..

Once on board they’d loot the world,
good sense to show more than willing.
Those lions that were led by lambs,
surely earned her royal mint shilling.

Hold up!
Wait there

See the people
stop and stare

standing frozen
hand in pot

cleverly guising
his shifty plot

slowly moving
trying to leave

surely he see's it
the bread in your sleeve.

Critique you did
Insight
inspiration
desperation
perspiration
admiration
then comes
excitation
and
composition
thereafter
recitation
and
now
do read this
composition
an
exploration
and
extemporation

Why? by RW
-
Where could all these black winds take me
They catch my wings and blow
Some times the sun sends secrets sweetly
at other times the razors show
-
though I steer I never fight it
the winds know what I need for now
at times sore racing thoughts ignite it
or else the stagnant breezes flow
-
the squall directs me to an abyss
slows to let me be a feast
to carrion crows and demon’s kiss
the mind rends from the wailing beast
-
This writing is a dangerous game

a promise
made together

a vow for eternity
with the one
you call destiny

not knowing
what the years may bring
where life may lead you both
or how it will end

but his words
made you fall
to your knees
tears in your eyes
and a broken heart

he was your better half
bitter through time
leaving you bruised
and bleeding

his mistress
his last breath
your destiny

the finale
was unexpected

While Wesley went to Washington
we huddled in the corner
muddled by the former need to escape
those hollow halls of who we are
and write, right to the end, bent over blazoned quills,
infectious iridescence, over and beyond the order
of this fine corner.