Two of us on a sixties hippie trip
to see if our gears would slip or mesh
innocent but wary yet wide-eyed
to the Imperial city of Marrakech
she perfumed with patchouli
me I traveled totally tie-dyed
all around was peace and love
we teamed to a tee and seemed
a fit the perfect hand in glove
but not long later it was deemed
as it was commonplace to see
in the medina not strapped for cash
kif from the Rif sellers
in the souk smoking hash
the country lacked law and order
no sooner said than escorted
back to Ceuta across the border
funny now in retrospect but not then
how when we blew out on the Sirocco
tho' we hadn't gone so far as the kasbah or bazaar
were deported without ceremony from Morocco
So tired of the TV talking heads
twisting every word that's said
much of it scripted
and has to be read
they don't even have a vested interest
only putting their mouth
where the money is at best
my advice to them...
'If you have nothing useful to add,
Mum's the word
don't drive us mad,
keep it under wraps
stow it under your hat,
put a lid on it
or a cork in it,
zip your lips,
spare us the hot air,
it's a verbal Sirocco and, in all likelihood,
an ill wind that blows no one any good.'
love once parched
gasps as sanctuaries die
a thirst endures unquenched
to perish in the wink of an eye
fervor spawned unyielding winds
abrasive to blinded eyes
an oasis yields today
prey to burning lies
facing west the sun in repose
stillness quietly masks
veiling deceit
hot sirocco winds
have taken love replete
wisps of air spin hurricanes
spawn driving hammering rains
contagion spreads
callous winds
erode less solid ground
Lute
Curved, inviting, light,
it has the look of antique ships,
a galleon bulge of straight-grained woods.
Fretful cat-gut cords
coiled taut by silver screws
above the calibrated neck
conceal a thousand foot-pound pirouette.
Child of Sirocco and Spain,
veils, fans, brocade, and lace,
olive, vine, and orange surprise,
its plangent sound irrigates the moonlit air
peeks through black-eyed jalousies.
Dowland, Cutting and our solid Bach
crocheted arabesques of tuneful notes
like pearls, rubies, emerald stones,
to pluck or tease from that dark pupil
a winking smile of treble Sun.
An ill wind blows
Straight across the land:
You can feel it now.
It’s a desert gale
That dessicates compassion;
A sandstorm
Scouring empathy from the heart.
It’s a parching blast,
A dry sirocco
That burns away kindness.
A wind that turns landscapes
Into arid civic ruin.