An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like nestling birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
There’s no amount
Which does not count
In an account…
Yep, no amount
Sellers discount
And while recount
Your whole story
Fail to glory:
Place in praised sky
For being Quite High…
Don’t pressures mount
After discount
For more from Fount
Or self soon count
The Badly Bluffed,
His wish rebuffed…
Discounts fetch smiles;
Who gave went miles!
Faerie never expected her novel to make any kind of list
And yet it did
It made the best seller’s list
This was unexpected and a bit unwelcome
She was a recluse
She did no interviews or talk shows
Faerie hosts flooded her with requests
She turned them all down
It took years to return to anonymity
Elves, gnomes, brownies and gargoyles ask her
When is your next book?
She ponders it, wondering if the same horrible thing might happen.
She could write it and savor it.
Not share it with the world until after she turns to fairy dust.
She picks up a quill and begins to write.
Seven sellers selling scissors
sold six feet apart
Selling scissors some would say
kept them running smart
When seven shoppers started strolling
stopping for the start
And sighing suckered seeming sick
sluggish from the heart
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like resting birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
> Mr. Peter Sellers >
The zaniest fellow
But oh-so-mellow --
As Inspector Clouseau
He'd steal the show
2 Old Veteran Soldiers
Raising money selling poppies
In our Local Hospital Foyer
I Salute you fine Sir's
Still Serving in Service after the Fact
You have my total and utter unabridged admiration
Such a shame you have to collect at all though
Surely its the current Government of the Day
And our Taxes that should provide for you
Given the ultimate Price you were willing and asked to Pay
Its a sad day indeed and indictment on modern Society
If we fail to pay our debt to you
God Bless you All
Especially the Fallen
wast it love
woven or well knitted
fabrics that cover the corves
of her beautiful body
the liquiers of these men
shall make words easier to pronounce
thus might we sing nightstrummed
to the audiences of
people
those who wish to hear lyrics of love
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