Rust flaked signposts,
from dew-stain,
era enigmatic,
omen, symbol,
scratched by,
yellow fog weather,
floating visual,
or pigment’s,
crumpled inmost span,
waned crossing,
I peer with,
hazed whimsy,
on my prime flush,
streetscape ambit,
what is destination,
but infinity of kismet,
elliptic nudge from afar,
“BLINDLY” lolling in,
circular pursuit,
then founding paradigm,
raise the “BLINDS,”
wisps of unearthly whisper,
almost orange-red robin,
yet impactful brain stroke,
luminous and lucid,
a close kin carols,
your inlying map,
is weatherproof,
absorb urban soundings,
with gut sense hunch
In its entirety
Safe keeping's vision
General's, shepherd's in close range
Pressed round horizon!
"Retreat!" The call goes out.
Each, 'at ease', 'lolling'
Inescapably overwhelmed.
Ere caves holed up in.
Beware complacency!
Skyline we all share.
Time's; in what fateful looms up.
Less for can prepare!
Of all the songs of seraph that endow
Timely blooms and shreds of Willow bough
Tangled and untangled the gilded strings of fall
And serenest sky up so high I heard a call-
Who? Helene blooms by the distant;
Rosemary
O' your crevice and blinks ruddy as berry
Your wanton tress and the light of dress
Bright and lucent the nightertale seems to caress
More fair and fairer that in amidst night of sky
While oft I stared you,my blind soul soar up so high
Twinkle,twinkle the jewellery of boundless æther
And orbed blossoms of heather,I see you slither
The theft of mine poor heart in busy hour
While of I was sniffing round your wallflower
Be lighter and be gentler to my weary heart
Thro' far and far you linger in this vapid art
Sprinkled from afar your's ray in earthly crust
Dwelt in gemmy nelumbo in midst of verdure,August
Part and impart your loveliness in dropping drips
Ah! winds it an aught from your carmine lips
Napping and wrapping beneath your shadow
So there the face of heaven; the firmamant meadow
Is now my faulty heart athrobs to revel with you
In chilly hour and lolling flower; sipping a wintry brew
The beach holds my footprints momentarily,
before a wave washes the shore clean again.
The scene is a snapshot album of memories.
Of light, reflections and moods swings begun there-
dawn hushes, afternoon lingers, and dusky forgiven's.
The sand remembers me more faithfully than I do,
warmly receptive when I stepped long enough to impress,
leaving a meandering trail of recollections.
Its beauty will continue without my witness,
not fading because I am not there to see it—
like true love that endures at a distance
waiting - suspended, surrendered, gently upended.
It’s gradually falling
Summer is increasingly lolling
The leaves are gently browning
We can’t wait for October’s crowning
When the gold leaves of lustre
Charm the fold with their cluster,
Flamboyantly trooping the autumn colours
And socially grouping them with lullers.
Nail walking down the street
Carrying a bagful to fix something
For the master who owns my dreaming
Storefronts lolling sidewalks asleep
Night quiet jazz, Erie, PA
The endless road breaking cartons
Locked doors being kidnapped jumping
fences getting spotted running away
Dreaming snatches of words in the air
Fine milky jazz boots on a roll a train
That passes at 10 a,m, cars with their vapor
Mist the chuga-chuga sound of a boxcar to
No-where the rattling of walls when you are
Alone hot tea Lorrianne in a skirt a poetry
Reading in N.Y. moving out with only the
Shirt on my back going down,back,out, taking
Chris to the mermaid bar covered in sand, no shoes
Living nearby close to the sea, changing
Having enough cool to chill sand enough to scratch
That you never itch life that you're full
Digging the Diz and jack going, back going, back going
Because you want to/needing nothing' nothing but a little
Taste now and again just being free doing it instead of it
doing you
She used to be fast
and bouncy,
but after two strokes
her head began to tilt
over her rolling neck
and podgy body.
Yet, through bleary eyes,
she saw off
starlings and cats,
toppling into them
with her comic
John Wayne walk.
When called
She would stagger sideways
wet nose tracking the sound,
then lurch forward,
tongue lolling,
a wide grin of recognition
plastered over her fuzzy face,
her brain.
You know, I have been thinking of calling
but I am afraid you will not pick up.
Maybe you will be relaxing in the bathtub,
Or in your room and just lolling.
Wait, are you stalling?
If so notify me so I can also take a nap.
Should I keep on trying to close this gap,
Or should I wait for you to come back crawling.
Are you happy this way?
Or you are just pretending to be strong.
You carry on, but that is something I will not do.
Seems like there is nothing you wish to say.
Or you have been pretending all along?
Just so you can leave after I fell for you.
Weekends are a little like
Bookends
They stop you falling
Or lolling too far over
So you don't appear untidy or
At least not so
Uncomfortable
They keep you straight
Give you
Purpose
Show you in your best
Posture
Vertical spine
Keeps you looking fine
Without life's bookends
We just become
Untidy
Unrested and sometimes
Unread
What a shame
When people stay closed
So thank you
Weekends
For keeping us
Perky and
In good order
Perhaps an enthusiast will
Choose to engage with
Our words of wisdom
Adventure
Poetry
Simply because
We appeared at our best
She used to be fast
and bouncy,
but after two strokes
her head began to tilt
on the rolling deck
of her body.
Through bleary eyes,
she saw off
starlings and cats,
toppling into them
with her comic
John Wayne walk.
When called
She would wobble sideways
tracking the sound,
then lurch forward,
tongue lolling;
a wide grin of recognition
plastered over her fuzzy face
and brain.
Awakening - not my forte per se,
With a new dawn perspective rather grey,
Lolling in bed I stretch and yawn until
Coffee aroma nibbles my nostril.
The mere thought of it stirs my core to rise,
The first sip opens up my droopy eyes,
Half through the cup my bowel goes wide awake,
My zest for life skyrockets, give or take.
On high alert I run round and about,
Achieve, accomplish and excel, no doubt.
Yet by noontime adrenaline I lack -
Need more of caffeine to bounce right back.
Cup on cup daily cravings satisfied,
Tossing and turning all night, the dread side!
By morning yet again the eyes tight shut
Til coffee scent tickles my nostril BUT
Sadly, in golden age I took to tea -
Temperament cooled down, caffeine free.
In my backyard,
the sun is drying blood spots
on leather uppers.
I don’t know if the cops will come.
A local cat has sniffed each worn and open throat,
it seems to prefer the left.
The shoes lay a few paces apart,
as if having lost the one,
the other had desperately abandoned
itself.
Footprints seem to stumble
away from the loafers.
Maybe somewhere,
two feet are laying slain,
far beyond pain.
Perhaps even now two pale feet
are being rubbed by warm hands?
Maybe just a little way from my warm bed
murder ran by,
its two tongues lolling,
gurgling with maniacal or drunken laughter?
The cops came,
they took notes.
Asked me what size shoe I take!
They grinned at each other.
then left.
They did not return.
Sundown came fast,
the fat Blue Heeler
lolling under the low picket fence
suddenly jerked his head up
as if someone had turned the lights out.
A startled Magpie scuttled over the hedgerow
maybe thinking it would be lighter on this side,
it wasn't,
eventually we all went to bed,
but the dog was dead by morning.
My dog is giving the sky
a meticulous tongue lolling.
Half way through the walk he dips
his pink lapper into a muddy puddle
then continues to paint the sky
to his liking,
'his liking' being
those odiferous bits of tainted earth
he uncovers with his wet nose.
I can see his work is having effect.
Just above our heads
the air has thickened, yellowing clouds
gather in a mellifluous miasma.
The heavens are ready to piss.
Internally we are both sunny,
it's just that his sense of art,
and its expression
is different from mine.
Dogshat and daffodils
and the world
always adding suitable hues
to balance the two.
Nature, like a Michael Angelo
always face up
building a sky-bridge
between them both.
Nevertheless, later today
I'll come back here with a ladder
and a bucket of whitewash.
Tired old dog strings along
gray muzzle huffing
hushing song birds.
Big head lolling
hips rolling
a sloppy mug hiding an old joke
he keeps to himself
I'm unwinding legs
from their rocking chair brain.
Feet caper crustily,
playing catch-up
with younger days.
Tired old dog is grinning again,
it sits itself down on the ground,
tail wagging trail dust
my way.
A dog biscuit and a smoke
hover ghost-like between us
certain tokens and signs
that we have walked a spell away
from the younger dogs
we imagined we were.
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