I will always wonder what sort of love we had.
I was naive and blindly infatuated.
You were seventeen years older than I, and sad.
From the beginning our shaky love was fated.
We had met and I fell, but patiently waited,
a fact for which both of our families were glad.
Even though we spoke with words insinuated,
I will always wonder what sort of love we had.
I wonder if we were a curious dyad.
Was this acerbic love become hate belated?
Only God will decide if this is good or bad.
I was naive and blindly infatuated.
Love faded rapidly after we had dated.
I wondered if I should remain calm or be mad,
I questioned guilty feelings that were created.
You were seventeen years older than I, and sad.
You were time-worn, emotionally armor-clad.
I understand now you would never be sated.
You bore the spirit of an unsettled nomad,
from the beginning our shaky love was fated.
Achingly romantic dreams I had created,
a basis for lifetime togetherness’ launchpad.
Alas, I have become confused and frustrated.
Tomorrow, in a renewed search for Galahad,
I will always wonder.
Arcadian almost snake like road, moonlit, bumpy and quiet,
Fox tippy-toed across to the burrow,
In anticipation thrown a singular look,
Beyond the gate lovely nook,
For you, the least I could do.
Verdant but with a lot of grunt,
The prospect of this dyad
Simple and straight,
Let's take a bite,
In the isolated carrel,
Not a room as some would call it,
As the intention was to enjoy,
Learn and study,
Predominantly all of you.
Suzanne!
With Blue-Eyed Boy in a glass,
Taste of your skin on the lips,
Throws and dips,
Dolores sang her heart out,
Diving in a bout,
Where memories meet passion,
Tango Criollo moving the hips,
A step toward the scent, and;
The citadel was to fall after a long siege,
I found my refuge, deep in it,
Where no enemy could touch,
Enjoying every bit of it, thank you very much.
The young trees weren't agog with winter snow
As the leaves chose to wither than grow,
Wafting gently its autumnal crocus to the frozen ground,
While the night birds carols in sonorous sound.
Yet it is garbed in prismatic glimmering ice
All over the street it dazzles the eyes
Of Dryad, then it heard a roar breaking the ambience
As if the wind was arguing with silence.
Then the sound lead to another, then another -
A cacophony deafened the air and shakened the order
A man with a chainsaw needs a Christmas tree
He sawed off the root and fissured it with glee
A young lad - a sentry was stationed by the way
He held his own star, lights and candies in a manner somewhat gay.
"Careful dad!" As the tree succumbed its teary droplets on dad
Before making a fall that made Dryad sad.
My life is a party to celebrate.
My wish list, I want to elaborate.
To be happy and always glad.
To be with you, to be my dyad.
My life is a party to celebrate.
My sorrow, I want to eradicate.
To stop worrying about something.
To stop dying on thinking.
My life is a party to celebrate.
You is the only one I don't want to be separated.
To be together.
To be with forever.
My life is a party to celebrate.
My own, I have to evaporate.
To make you happy.
Attend my coffee party.
My life is a party to celebrate.
My wish list, I want to elaborate.
To be happy and always glad.
To be with you, to be my dyad.
My life is a party to celebrate.
My sorrow, I want to eradicate.
To stop worrying about something.
To stop dying on thinking.
My life is a party to celebrate.
You is the only one I don't want to be separated.
To be together.
To be with forever.
My life is a party to celebrate.
My own, I have to evaporate.
To make you happy.
Attend my coffee party.
Lights come up slowly to reveal a bare stage, undressed except for a backdrop on which is
painted the impression of an orchard; the painting is so light that it suggests a
water-colour. Two men enter, a young man dressed in a plain white robe, the BARD, and a
considerably older man dressed in a robe of six colours, the DRUID. They walk slowly to
STAGE CENTER, the slowness indicative of the older man' advanced years and the younger
man's respect for him.
BARD: Must the actor always play a role?
DRUID: What is an actor?
BARD: Must the actor always play a role, even off stage?
DRUID: The apple trees look sore tired this season. I've no longer the strength to prune
them properly.
BARD: Oh. Aye, aye. (Pause) What of the actor's contention that we are all actors, that
all intercourse whether within the dyad, the community, or merely with ourselves 'tis but
an act?
DRUID: Who put the words in the actor's mouth? The 'wright?
BARD: I think it was extemporaneous, miLord. (Pause) It was an improvisation class.