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swoon beam on the edge
optimism tempered twinkle~
frontward through the dawn
time passes away
echoing in hollow past~
future whispering
nothing left inward
those loathsome optimists smirk~
blind to my hollow
Will you be my love?
Together we`ll build a nest of dove.
We`ll have couple of kids
And bring up them all the days and nights.
I will be yours you will be mine
We will wander together and dine.
From hills to valleys and bines to fines.
We`ll cross black hole and the forbidden lines.
Oh! My lady, silently come.
Let surrounding be deaf and dumb.
Stand frontward and hold your tongue.
Let the critic keep mum.
With most of my possible lovers
Strangely far away
The only means of testing
A little box with a blue line across the top
Or a web interface with which I get to see
Your face, only momentarily
Usually late at night or at other obscure and fleeting moments
Each of my invisible counterparts provide a temporary diversion
Or a momentary ego boost, and yet as that Rabbi’s wife told me
“You will never know, til you’re in their presence and that moment hits
Where you know that they could provide you with what you need,
In an actual time frame and you will know you can provide too, for them.
Rather than a semblance of reality providing a destiny complex and an
Intimacy only present on the screen of your MacBook”
“Just wait,” she said “ until life presents them to you and then you will be able to decide”
I nodded, sure she was correct.
However til then, yes I'm available to chat
Even when you all wish solely to discuss my frontward protuberances and occasionally my dreams and family situation… maybe I should just wait til that cheeky drink.
The rain appeared, arctic
Spattered the duck board
As angry pellets flinched
And recoiled
Boathouse dank, bleak
Galley proofing transpire
Moist and humid
With sense of Frangelico
And bitter almonds
The sord chattered
With new fervor
And feeders sojourned
Past darkled dawn
Composition turned to
Decomposition
Place in basket
Not to collate
Wits and writer’s block
Onset of migraine
Twinge
With visual disturbance
And sorrow
Write of grief
She is not coming back
Time heals
Do not die
Spring frontward
Go home
Sun is aching to flicker
Drop downbeat design
Bloom buds of dreams
The beating of a single drummer boy,
Banging out his tunes,
Leading forth our heroes,
Our homegrown nations faithful platoons.
British men daring to take the front line,
Onwards and upwards,
Cry out the voices,
Trackers frontward lead, seeking out the mine.
The enemy advance, to take control,
Laden with weapons,
Coming to influence,
Riding Britannia of her soul.
For king and country, man, woman and child,
Trench life over powering,
The time of death looming,
Forever darkness the chance of hope is mild.
The last round of deadly fire is sent forth,
No more pain or fighting,
The war has come to cease,
Sending joyful messages of victories, north.
Normandy, the final resting place,
Of those brought down in battle,
Forlorn widows, crying,
Poppies mark the end of a dying race.
The beating of a single drummer boy,
Banging out his tunes,
Leading home our heroes,
Our homegrown nations faithful platoons.
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