Flying past the hillsides,
flying pat the bays,
flying past the cabin
where I might just like to say.
Flying past the tall trees,
branches scrape my feet,
’tis the finest jetpack
you can buy with money.
Ain’t no toil,
in my jetpack royal,
my view is unspoiled
in my jetpack royal,
so high the blood boils
in my jetpack royal,
the schemes that I’ll foil
in my jetpack royal.
Flying through the cities,
over the suburbs,
flying past the park where
kids by swings wait their turn.
Flying over mountains,
past the birds of prey,
the eagles give strange looks
then dive out of my way!
Ain’t no toil,
in my jetpack royal,
my view is unspoiled
in my jetpack royal,
so high the blood boils
in my jetpack royal,
the schemes that I’ll foil
in my jetpack royal.
Oh, free flying,
so high and free,
I wish you had
a jetpack like me.
If I had cash
I’d buy you one,
we’d soar up high
and have too much fun!
Ain’t no toil,
in my jetpack royal,
my view is unspoiled
in my jetpack royal,
so high the blood boils
in my jetpack royal,
the schemes that I’ll foil
in my jetpack royal.
Let our clear eyes gaze
at the rising moon on the
shores of the Sahara, let
the evening stars shine,
holding the skies in their
cosmic magnet, let the
tides cease their aggression
within the ocean, like the
brutish pain we feel as
we welcome and embrace
the oases of our longing
faiths, our kisses
flirting on the shores
of the ocean’s lips,
resolute in our struggle.
We are sandwiched between
the blades and mortars of
these plains, bludgeoned on
the banks and rivers of
these burning forests,
our peace stolen by
hate, so we spend
these silver years in
agony, asking the same
questions our ancestors
asked: shall our hopes be
burnished and taken away on
the lost bays of these curving
currents determined to throw
us into the pits of the boiling
gutters, or shall our longing
faiths, like stones, outlast
the flames of the forest fires?
When tint of duskfall weaves through a cloud
I spill lacquered paint on bays, ashore
my gold-red shades draping sand. Endowed
with citrine flame of sky , I soar:
Call me ambrosia too. Just outside,
nectar drips from marmalade nights
honey and cantaloupe bless my glide--
O I'm there...when slice of dawn alights !
Ominous bays of hellhounds thunder in the bleak night
As a shattered glass slipper is found amongst powdered ivory snow,
The glint caught within incorporeal warping moonlight—
Leading to a blue grey corpse, mangled with frozen tears cemented in place.
Hands clenched around a copper timepiece,
The minute hand paused at one past twelve.
The putrid scent of desperation still hangs heavy in the air.
A note, scribbled in vermilion, is tucked within her bosom:
I'm sorry. I was overwhelmed—and so very lonely. She came to me with promises of grandeur. All I had to do was make a pact: be home by midnight, or my soul would forever be hers.
How could I resist? She seemed so innocent, with the smells of childhood lingering—conjuring up all that is glorious.
Besides, you, my dear family, seemed not to notice, nor care, about the pain quietly consuming me. So I took the deal, inked in blood and sealed with a poisonous kiss.
If you happen to find this note, I never made it back in time. And my fate lies within her mercy.
Winds begin to howl,
Ocean's breath a churning threat,
Boats seek sheltered bays.
©bfa050625
Missed someone a lot,
No words nor thoughts.
Could describe how it was.
But what was the point,
When someone has already gone.
One more "hello", one more "goodbye",
For the good and the last time.
Could not believe or imagine,
How I was treated the way you did.
I love piano music sound to my ears.
You said things music to my ears,
But nothing valid.
I need time and energy to do things,
Like piano, embroidery, poetry and travelling.
So spare me with your words and promises.
All my precious time and energy
Has been exhausted.
None left to do anything else.
Long weekend is coming up.
So as the heat and warm weather.
Sorrento, Phillip Island and Apollo Bays,
Here I come, one by one and day after day.
That is what I pray.
2025.2.23
Summer heat waves.
Checked on the website,
Beaurology of Melbourne weather forecasted.
The temperatures, the winds, the water and the tides.
Would be in the 30°c, calm, fine and low tides.
I somehow started to get panic,
Not because of the heat.
But more about the end of the summer is near.
Comparing to last year,
Victoria has more heat waves and sunny days.
I had so much sun tan,
Someone insisted I was from African decent.
This year, I visited Cowes Philip Island,
Warrnambool, Apollo Bay, Point Lonsdale and Lorne,
Not to forget Geelong,
As it was always there on the way.
I went to Sorrento back beach,
St Paul Lookout, Jubilee Point, Diamond Bay and Bays of Island's.
I would continue to travel,
As long as I was still able,
Until one day, I leave this place,
And go far far away.
Until then, I might see you again.
Asclepius, one cannot build from sand,
Such light and shifting grains as mortals be.
The wind and tide shall warp what e’er is planned,
Foundations fade before the pounding sea.
And yet, when grains of sand flow through my hand,
I smile at warmth and richness I know not.
Through falling columns have the sea I scanned,
As through a fog, and this the vision brought.
Once, weary, weary, weary on the sea,
One weary, wandering sailor, long away.
‘Tis torpor, tempest, tedium, weary he,
When wind-whipped waves whisk words on salty spray.
“Rain-hardened sailor, welcome now,
The ocean storms here mend their ways.
No lonesome mists embrace the prow,
Here glegful otters tend their bays.
This oaken isle, this Avalon,
O’er the futile, beating sea;
This dream-cast realm, this jewel at dawn,
Where thought is regal, talent free.
And here beyond the reach of might,
Where ancient tribal flaws decay,
With cobbled streets and spires alight,
New thought, new form, new love, hold sway.”
When whence these words surveyed had he,
Before his eyes a visage be.
‘Twas older than eternity,
That face that sank beneath the sea.
I fantasized of a possibility we couldn't foresee,
a reality I would grasp between my dusted fingers
before it slipped away into the reaches of beaches,
in the shorelines' bays of an emotion that still lingers.
I'd walk with you in the crystal ball of our fate,
encased in a clear dewdrop of peace so undesecrated.
We'd dream of an angel-eyed crimson enclosure,
where we'll hide our daggers and sharp opinions.
That unlawful loving thinking that forged our home,
does its embers keep you warm where I couldn't?
Do you think of me as a lurking burden never known,
or am I the tangled knots in your life you'd comb?
But you keep my heart wrenched and unchanged.
it sinks my hopes but I can't help and figure you'd
leave me reeling for a feeling you couldn't pay,
yet all your kind signs give me shine and disarray.
You fill the gaps dug by my angers, I promise
my hopes aren’t a future unpraised and dishonest.
O’ friend! Son of this realm your native land
and Knight of the Long Bay on the long shore -
Fisher King to its isle and rock and sand
where long ago we drank and gazed The Tor.
And I echo back to that flickered light
when the fires of youth burned in you and me -
your joust a friendly repulse to my smite
in our sometime world of headfu-ckery!
Truly we are each to each older bound
so stoke the fires that blaze up on the Firth -
think on its mortal flame, its living sound
how one day it shall perish from the Earth.
O Captain! My Captain! I say to you
the mind is still young and the heart is true.
Written: June 2010
For CB on his 50th Birthday
Note: The Tor (pictured) is a rocky outcrop
in the East Coast Bays on the northern
beaches of Auckland, New Zealand.
Captain is a reference from a Walt
Whitman line. It was an epithet CB
would often jokingly refer to me as.
I want to have wings.
I want to fly
over the bays
and into the sky.
Don't try to stop me,
Don't even try.
Don't even think to ask me why.
I want to have wings that will convey,
convey me back to another day.
Take me to where I feel the rays,
the light that never goes away.
Again and again I pause and pray
please give me wings to fly away;
away to my queen so I can stay,
even if it's only for just one day.
If only you knew the feel of a zephyr,
With its current swooping around hillsides
Ruffling the spruce trees everywhere,
Or descend downwards towards verdant vales
Where flowers bloom all through the year.
If only you knew what the oceans utter
As wonderful waves smash into each other,
Or roll nonchalantly towards the bays,
Destroying sand castles or wiping up
The poor love letters which were written there.
If only you knew the various sounds of Earth,
The laughter of little children playing in our parks,
The parade of grown-ups commemorating feasts,
The sounds of aeroplanes fighting for supremacy,
Whilst on the ground tanks rumble on firing at will.
If only you knew the evil concocted by selfish persons,
Where kindness seems to be at a premium.
Yet I discern others who are compassionate
And help others less fortunate than themselves.
How grateful receivers of good works will be.
If only you knew how many angels fly above
Around the silver stars that orbit in perfect harmony.
Angels that care for this poor land which
We have ruined successfully through our unwanted trash.
While food is thrown away when others die in famine and pain.
Placed 1
I loved my life on the fish quay,
among the fisherman's bays,
Just to be involved in fish,
And learn a skill that pays.
Filleting fish all-day long,
For chefs with Michelin stars,
Local chippies,hotel chains, bistros and certain bars.
Some people could not stand the smell ,
of fish upon your clothes,
No matter how much soap you use,
the smell is in your pores.
We had our local fishing boats ,
sell there produce everyday,
A great selection of North Sea fish ,
caught just outside the bay.
Crabs and lobster all alive ,
We'd grade and place in tanks,
Dover sole and halibut,
so fresh and stiff as planks.
Life in hospital wards,
with blue drapes, white washed floors,
grey assets, wheeled tables.
Corn-beef hash, carrot mash,
day-pay TV cables.
Life in hospital wards,
spiked fevers, cooling aids,
pee cups, samples of stool.
Loose laced gowns, ECGs,
stagnant air, stubborn drool.
Life in hospital wards,
monitoring alarms,
timely medical rounds.
A poke, a prod, a look,
constant buzzers and sounds.
Life in hospital wards,
all day bed, in shared bays.
No warm blankets - quite cold,
snuggled in all one brought.
Alone, no hand to hold.
02.26.2024
We are mislabeled as sea birds and should be called
big birds, like that yellow one but we're not yellow.
We never land on land for a year or longer, and we
been told that we have known God since he was a
little boy. The unfeathered say that for a very long
time we're like many fishes in the sea, but now we
are like whales. The few of us left, live in the north
atolls of Hawaii. There's no other place in the world
except for oceans, seas, bays ... forget what I said.
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