A muse, a mist, a lover's kiss,
assists another sage.
He taps his crown, and jots it down,
and scripts another page.
His quill is dipped, and well equipped,
accomplished for his age.
So deft of hand, mature command,
perhaps to earn a wage.
An anxious calm, a tense aplomb,
reactions hard to gauge.
Reviews astound, perhaps he's found,
an exit from this cage.
Twas sought afar, from schools to bars,
he's the topic, he's the rage.
A wisp, a glow, now scripts the show,
of stars from screen and stage.
Confetti on the floor and the curtains close, a shadow amidst the crowd catches her eye
The deft moves and the grin of a Cheshire cat
And the stars in her eyes
Fell for the glamour and the vibes
Vowed to the art, till the bright sunrise
Then the clock strikes twelve and the sleepless night
Brings the opal-eyed knight to a lifeless fight, of the tales and the cuts
And the chaos of the worlds, they portray
Where they shine, where the pieces truly shatter
The life of the gray and the brave
The showgirl survives yet another sky
Then the king walks down, to the aisle through the hall
Watches her carry out, the story of her downs
And ups and seas, and the talons of her enemies
Imprinted on the plays she puts forth, through the magical prose
And the showgirl sees, the little-st of her dreams, in reality
Wakes up from the fate of the fortuitous mistake, the lights dim down
But the glow never dwindles cause she wears the crown
A vessel of hope, a beacon of woe
The showgirl survives yet another night.
Autumn flies down on wings.
With a gamut of paints, turns green leaves into gold.
In joy, sings.
A true master-
With deft strokes, he changes the old.
Trickster.
On trees,
What hues unfold.
Wiz
Autumn flies down on wings.
With deft strokes, he changes the old.
Wiz
Weaving shade, nuance, deft subtle plots,
Leaving wry joke, ink commas, dots
dreams on script unfold, imbued with life,
schemes and clued-in darting figures now rife.
Taunting twist and turn in tale, pivot point,
teasing lavish scene, a buttressed hinged-joint,
matters key, core, glib, lax in broad domain,
scatters glee, sound hint, deep echo’s gold chain
Weaving shade, nuance, deft subtle plots,
Leaving wry joke, ink commas, dots
dreams on script unfold, imbued with life,
schemes and clued-in darting figures now rife.
Taunting twist and turn in tale, pivot point,
teasing lavish scene, a buttressed hinged-joint,
matters key, core, glib, lax in broad domain,
scatters glee, sound hint, deep echo’s gold chain
Display onstage rapt passion swept a coup,
convey snap gemstone verse devoid of cue,
author duty bound might accent focus,
daughter birthing play has heart light locus.
Rounds of earnest clapping greet bold set piece,
grounds for earthquake valour a bright life lease,
bowing to staunch flock who treasure art form,
wowing maestro coterie, vast novel norm
An odd
feathery down-
turn of newfound
dreaded funds was fortu-
nately worth more than what the hated Fur-
ry Rotund Honey Dew knew to be water fronting wooden draft-
y thunder dogs so worn and dandy that the Candy Man alone
could run like Daddy throwing deft redun-
dant forts around as if
the 14th Door
had come
unglued
revealing nothing but a fairy hut with 20 clown head toadies trending up-
ward where
the Theory Runes are read by nude defrauding dry
Mad Dorks who author notes defying the very turf
we've surfed so far today
and further on into the night that not
a single sole can say will end up swell in terms of Old Brown Shoe
repair.
The Fourth rose hard fire tracing lines across the sky
Then you went quiet slipping past the noise without reply
Vietnam lived in you like a shadow that never left
A war carried inward silent disciplined and deft
At fifty you stepped out of the world with no parade
While fireworks kept burning blind to the cost you paid
Now each July Fourth stands rigid cold and bright
And July Fifth returns thirty years held in that light
If You were to be my final ballad,
bold and blazing,
bleeding ink burning eternally
would the book of my life
be closed on a death bed of bliss,
sealed with a locket of Your lovely longing,
perhaps left open upon my chest
to where You and I confessed
that our love is a natural obsession,
that torturous distance
made our passion more deft,
that Time was not an enemy,
It has been an ally
towards the evolution of our devotion,
the last heartbeat of a Poet Man
haloed by phoenix quills of love,
If You were my final kiss,
tight and liquid hot,
let's have our lips hold on long
to a breath immortal
unfading as faith fearless,
reverberating into the Valhalla
of Love ever living,
If You were to induce my final tear,
searing and falling
into the open mouth of my truth
It will be voicing an ultraviolet
cymatic oval
pitching into a promise
that is already realized,
If You were to be my final fear,
let It be that I am scared
of not being scared
of lovin' You all the way...
J.A.B.
Dawn on spider silk—
A wren's wing brushes one strand,
pearls get rearranged—
web keeps its geometry,
only the dewdrops have gone.
Sea mists on a pane.
A beam of sunlight sneaks through
opening the view
The room fills with fresh insight
the glass was never quite touched.
Moonlight falls on pond.
A reed bends and flits a leaf
from the water's skin.
The stars' reflections remain
unruffled by the ripples.
A loose silver hair
caught upon a jacket sleeve—
deft fingers pause, then
borrow it for half a breath
before the mind can claim it.
A word almost said.
Hangs sharp between two old friends.
A teacup is poured.
steam skims anger flecks aside,
while a spoon stirs the tea leaves.
Mother's soft fingers.
Lift a lash from a boy's cheek—
he never looks up.
A small kindness passes by
unnoticed by either eye.
Sat by the bedside.
She loosens his wedding ring
twists it part aside.
The pale band beneath remains—
pale skin bands outlast the gold.
When last light thins out,
even the gentlest touch fails
to lift what's worn thin—
Outside, moonlight skims the roof;
bounces, flits, and flies away.
She was picked from the rib of man
while sleeping
Made with the deft and delectable
touches of the Almighty Sculptor
An exquisite blend
Beheld with a skipped breath and
exclamation mark!!!!
That is the mark a woman.
Growing and glowing into the full bloom
as purposed at noon day.
Just like the Sunflower bow in obessiance
to the Sun
So shall you pay respect to your maker
The Almighty Artist
Before you enter the state of decline
As the beauty wanes and fade away.
Before life's cycle turns full circle.
Heaven is not the word to awaken,
with lemon balm sprig bristle in each lung,
a staunch loam-ridden citrus bouquet,
in an urban copse of dulcet twittering tone,
avian wrens in sweet floral flute glaze,
whose madrigal a charmed chestnut chime,
vast tree canopy quiver note suspense,
clam shell ear tilt of mine to absorb,
scattered mint fragrant leaf strewn carpet,
pale grey glisten brittle branch snap I twig,
rain soak mud clump squelch quaint echo,
still morning usher draped in lambent haze,
teaser trickle stream tucked away a prickle,
deep purple rose bush as dawn shelter,
grass blade tuft flicker on rimmed bypath,
breathless so I am amidst lavish terrain,
spellbound, captivated, eye transfixed,
by clement backcloth to a city in slumber,
indigo blue signpost embossed bold cue,
for empyrean trope as shrewd street élan,
mural chalk mark swirl from deft artist,
gourmet menu flair neath parasol,
overwhelmed, stunned, air passage empty,
yet my first blush stroll sun vital tonic
Cinderella kicked off her shoes,
looked down at black and blue and bruise.
“Is anything worth this?
Honestly, he’s all yours sis!
Without a man, what do I lose?”
He was called ‘Charming’, no name had he,
but lover, leader and King he’d be.
He chased women who left;
dating, he’d never be deft.
A wife: the only future he could see.
Page left blank wins, wins
if I never start a line
I can't get it wrong;
with no ending left to find—
the start can't falter; unwind.
A blank page is bliss—
white space an endless delight
with no trace of ink
left half-done to reek and taunt
its pristine incompleteness.
I outsmart "The End"
with no "In the Beginning"—
nor any "Meanwhile"
to divert from emptiness
echoing sheer vacuum-ness.
Silence quakes with guilt—
words foreclosed are blocked at source,
nothing's left to fail;
nothing to erase or fix;
with a deft dab of white-out.
Delectable daze
aligned aesthetic
shimmered swoon
of
bespoke ripples
svelte meander
induced isthmus
vapour vaulting
veracity stoic
conscious cognizant
bard assimilating
aureate archways
seismic
rendered relish
goading effervescent
literary lullaby
interwoven
opportune foramen
tinctured chasm
or otherworld
fractured frisson
bejewelled
template tempter
sonic madrigal
enticing
creative lunge
toward tiered
vanilla visuals
for
ethereal lyric
deft minstrel
of
fermented finesse.
lithe moulder
authorised pen
swimming
enigmatic estuaries
whilst
dance retinue
sunshine swathes
pivotal pirouette
spawning
erudite enjambment
satin weave
gossamer lens
whose
amaranthine fixed
focus eschews
bland doggerel
instead
chatoyant cynosure
replenished quill
lacquers
indigo imbued
bunting’s warble
inducing
hypnotic portrait
surreal verse
delirious
weave web
unravelled
dream denouement
of
epic entablatures
Arthur Conan Doyle believed
the bright fae might not be myth,
maybe the Cottingley hoaxers
muddled his rational pith!
Perhaps if he'd gone to Ireland,
in groves of the Hawthorne tree
where troops of faeries romp wildly
weaving their magic to see.
Then he could think logically,
like a Victorian sage~
simple answers are often best:
believe, respect, always praise.
Benevolent tricksters, people
of the mounds parading forth
for good or ill, depends on your
deft-thinking and gifts of torte
Sub Categories
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