wipes the hot spittle
life's no riddle
and sunlight slashs like a flare

words behind for ears to hear
slip like a noose about the heart
and neck

who said life was fair?

Vanity is wicked and the
smiles consume the egos
and ignorant snarls throw
back the change

steam rises from a cup
too anxious to belong
the eyes staring to move along

and the dream is the vivid
climax
awake my duckling ugly
beautiful this dawn
praise and clamour
in the sordid little pond

Surrounded by red desert and blue ocean,
the city realises, and suffers
the magnified full impact
of the sweltering southern afternoon sun's
harsh, reflective rays.

While I seek the illusive comfort of shade,
sitting simmering in sweaty stickiness,
a vibration, a long reverberating thrum from within, rises,
unites with the oppressive weight of extrinsic heat
and wends its way into the very expanse of reality,
insidiously dulling my senses,
rhythmically sounding, echoing through my being.

she was an American refusenik
and the eye of Ra
once gazed upon her

from dust
she fashioned a solitary word
that flowed
into oceanic verse
and weighted down clouds
to anchor roses to the sky

she burned through images
of what can never be seen
she turned pages blank

she was a blade of grass
aloft
a token of love lost.

Let's not go down this lane
For when we start the journey
And gaze upon each other's nakedness
Knowing we have tied no nuptial knot
This is what we are;

We are two innocent souls on the edge
Conflicting thoughts flooding our heads
Thought of eternity...fading away into night

As fabric gives way to bare flesh
We know we should not be here
Yet hands caress bodies...lips find lips
Our consciences scream out...our hearts skip

It warns ones heart
to see the return
of beautiful faces we...
traversed with across the seven seas,
now in voices of sparrows
soft and sweet,
we can hardly wait to hear
the politest speech, of one
since long in hibernation,
as do some birds,
awaiting the return of a spring
ere the summer…
such melodious voices like cuckoo’s sing
and
songs of praise all poets murmur
the one we missed most,
now returns
and
the warmth of flames in our hearts does burn.

My sister,
tired and haggard,
caring for two infants,
saw the camera pointed at her
and was instantly photogenic .

Is it a craft or skill,
dare I say sullen and unlearned ?
Pause your DVD and see
beauty transformed by drooping eyelids,
bad moments captured.

How would you feel if your eyes captured only those moments,
or the beauteous ones,
depending on mood,
like me.
Or do you?

I really want to know.

My friend, yellow lined
Made my lonely dreams come true
Gold collections grew
Images in my minds eye
Gems etched in italic print

Amavi
blood trails feed
nights wingtips breeding stars

The false prophets have misled us
And we have crawled on our knees
To this modern miseries
Long away from the ancestral home

We are now lost in the wastelands of time
And our throats sourly scorch
From the long walk across the dirt of the desert
But the waters from the distant oceans
Bypasses in a pitiless hurry
And bidding us a mocking farewell

Once, hand in hand, I walked this way before
with one desire, who set out to deceive.
I now deplore the thought of any encore
that may, one more time, cause my heart to grieve.

So it must surely come as no surprise
I struggle to resist the warmth I feel.
I turn to face you, look into your eyes,
preparing to deny my love is real.

But in their depths I see the glint of tears
as fresh and virtuous as morning dew.
They wash against my heart, subdue my fears,
and promise me enchantments all anew.