Sundown creeps,
across adorned amber,
sky whose welkin,
shades volte face,
as evening edges,
into cosmic chakra,
of visual feasts,
orange, pink, purple,
prelude which emblazon,
point of day exodus,
atrophied moon winking,
mystic morph of,
dwindling halo,
to homeward bound,
throngs thirsting,
for redress within,
winter jasmine enclave,
cabal, clique, cluster,
in shrunken retreat,
from dreary toil,
nudge from nightfall,
whose cryptic code,
a dark art patois,
exemplified by,
eastern screech owl,
whose stocky medium,
and varied volume,
that twilight tremolo,
purring incognito,
among other creatures,
wet soil genus,
brisk firefly flash,
in town backyards,
wing rubbing katydid,
tree top rasp,
or amid green bush,
chirpy cricket,
midget burrow dweller,
allow oneself to wallow awhile,
in evening habitat,
in all its allure
Helel: "In accordance with awe, shall we not wet the beaks of the impounded and open the golden maw?"
Kate: "Come and find the firestone broke the cradle and the heath is afeather, I shall but sprung like a promise to weather."
Lucifer: "Is the gloomy stake left with feet adjoined for a door, the promise is ancient, the antique is so pourn."
Aurora: "Timidity like timely strikes the ground flashed across the weathered hetherseconds like amber on the fritz. "
Uraeal: "I copiously decline the stooping ingate of a plan, like vespers cross dark circles and racoon city is old and planned."
RK: "So fearsome but tired the wolf, hell is rolled up and death has rolled over."
DR Dragon: "angsty pray for the weary let Zeus now dowse next and inspect the coral city."
Zeus: "In videographic cards there are other games, let wicked things while I ask them to say."
PW 1: *Has returned, tires of the usual stroll and begins towards the old stones.*
arophc varuag: "Tip back the gamed throngs like milling wet eaves that parlay for soon songs."
The Forbidden one: *Has returned, ushers forth to find the fray this here and now*
---End of act II---
‘Up The Mountains’
‘Down The Shore’
Street Vernacular
Philly Pure
Cheesesteak Heaven
‘Wit Or Witout’
South Street Pretzels
Twist And Shout
Frankie And Bobby
Fabian’s Luck
Chubby singing
The Hucklebuck
Jerry Blavat
Dick Clark’s Dawn
Comcast Center
City Throngs
Dovel’s Stomping
Hall And Oats
Bell Of Freedom
— Philly Note
(Freedom’s Birthplace: June, 2026)
this is the Beatles as we rarely saw them in the sixties
where are the throngs of fawning screaming women?
they are dressed in suits in different colors
that is new too; the Beatles always dressed like monkey cousins
wait. One does not have a suit. He is wearing blue jeans.
I marvel at this album color; it portrays nothing I recognize
and yet, I know John, George, Ringo and Paul
That is them all right
There is something fresh, new and invigorating about this cover.
A reflection of the songs within
I have to have this album!
I reach into my wallet for my four dollars.
I wend my way
to Tamarisk Bay.
White sands glow
beyond the foe.
Amid pink trees
and whispered breeze
I hear the lilt
of haunting guilt
as pipes intone
a strangled moan
for sacred things
ripped from kings
while throngs gazed
at beauty razed
and cowered mute
when fear did suit.
Here on invigorating fresh lovely day,
one can lazily saunter along the way,
through each winding street so alive,
where the heart’s bound to thrive,
each. and. every person that I meet,
is quite friendly, warm, and sweet,
throngs in cafe with trademark verve,
plot some schedule, sway and swerve,
in my role as that astute observer,
I absorb prevailing charm and fervour,
paths, pavements, highways, parks,
they compel instant recall of amusement,
from impish childhood and boisterous larks,
forever etched and somehow fondly linked to,
evolution of historic town’s bemusement,
never ever shied away from embracing anew,
preservation that monument forever to the fore,
past and present composite of lasting merit,
world so truly modern, vintage world of yore,
impetus for our future offspring to inherit
Autumn leaves, sad songs
colored trees in throngs
hah, a rueful laugh
always – this heart longs
Used and discarded thought shadows lurk
at every sunrise as if each were renewed.
A touch from the fading past, in a moment
as i look at the wet pebbles, ever decreasing.
Welcoming the receding tide, a caressing breeze
on which floats, the busy two tone oyster catcher.
On that breeze voice’s travel, voice's calling out
over the relentless, out going, in coming waves.
Are we all but driftwood ? Leaving to return
when the gorse flower is yellow in rare sunlight.
Maybe rudderless, in a firm belief and trust,
of our hearts compass, and its choice is free.
Be elusive ! Leave no trace, be faceless in
milling throngs and crowds, not out of place.
Perhaps a living phantom, amongst many,
yet never careless in your constant carefree.
Blend into the background, be seamless.
Against the back drop of green leaf copses, dulcet bird chirp, and bubbling pavement fountains,
that dawning from the azure blue sky a silken whisper,
to follow street signs on my route to work with ample gusto and much verve,
each metal
pointer to destination a micro mirror on its surround,
stoic indicator of direction, that upright unique urban compass,
clustered by behemoth scenic grandeur at its mint spring zenith,
and surging throngs who sashay in brisk step patterns so diverse yet firmly focussed,
as I am whilst counting on that reference point, that fixed point usher,
that deep-dyed friend at each crossroad safe in the knowledge of arrival,
and in tandem with a spotless day’s heroic toil in bright prospect,
how symbolic are these pathway guide rails to one who warms to flagship growth,
in its august transit on foot slog pitfall strewn road of expertism,
pole mounted emblems, silent sentry solid, detail for me on daily passage.
A feather's touch, your light
Warm and glowing bright
An angel in the night
Softens my will to fight
Instead instills belonging
Pales my ceaseless longing
Though ere I push those away-
Who would love me
Sooth, I am weary of the fight
Midst safe solitudes, in my right
Accepting being wrong and of bone-
And flesh, less immortal than alone
I would die loved by a mere few-
Than worshiped by prideful throngs
E'en tho', my angel, thou fade from view
My heart beats once more where it belongs
Thanks to you
On a cold, chilly October autumn street,
One can watch bright coloured twirling leafs,
and the prompt urban wanders who walk on them,
you’d yearn to engage with these throngs at least,
how they might unravel a facade or two in sequence,
quite often on many occasions I imagine their stories,
If I only had the gumption to speak to them,
whirl pool rain and storms indeed might be a hindrance,
wind allied to drizzle an incentive to cafe caper refuge,
a general overall dampness, wet, drizzle, grey skies,
Predictable intrusion of the normal outlet that rambling obviously is,
instant topic to dwell on covering a wide range therein,
seasons have such insole penchant for moulding outlook,
symbolism is mine to grasp and expand on foot,
pavement as a slippy shivery theatrical perilous stage,
It can be perceived as home to the shrewd adaptable speaker,
actor, actress, character, playwright,
audience,
will the earnest crisp daylight morning fall fodder dominate?
as I boldly essay an impromptu unrehearsed passage in situ,
yet silent thoughtful conversation has already composed the script
There's a basic sense of satisfaction.
With safety, like a fort, I'm surrounded.
With friends, there's a lively interaction.
In acts of love and joy I'm well-founded.
Yet I am weighed down with an inner fear.
Where from my superciliousness throngs?
Paths, as though with fog, are often unclear.
Why do I turn dumb when I oppose wrongs?
Happiness must flow like a distinct stream.
Existence, like the breeze, should flow freely.
Fortitude must glimmer like the sunbeam.
Each minute must be lived ideally.
the sun is in the fair east
my sorrows are not yet at my back
i look up at the joyous heavens
i have no grief nor lack
my wonderland is here
trinkets made from silver and gold
time is of the essence you see
for I only have a day to mold
my garden is my own
made from the petals of the sky
it grows in the chambers of the mind
spilling into life with endless supply
i build castles of ice and frost
only to melt them at repeat
with many battles and throngs
and mind games that shout no defeat
i am soft to the touch but wild in play
tomorrow I know will come soon
and i will have to harden with
the tide of the changeling moon
September winds carry the echoes of ancient songs,
When air was sweet with the scent of earth
And we placed our wishes upon the willow's roots,
Weeping then as echoes drowned in the noise of throngs,
When cares of life displaced the child’s mirth
And left us crushed by war's tough boots.
From ground to high sky
birds fill break of day with song
feathered hymns rejoice—
dawn chorus of wing and will
call all to join nature's voice
Magpie's carolling
ignites dawn with fluted bells
welcoming chorale
in day-break's cathedral dome
joyous songs of devotion
Willie Wagtail struts
tail flicks like a metronome
swagger in each step—
black-and-white little soldier
stakes claim to place of its own
Grey Fantail arc skits
with tail flits like restless fan
chaos ensemble—
air itself shakes in the dance
with its frantic flight patterns
Superb Fairy-wren
courageous, blatantly bold
blazes bright in blue—
outlandish flare on green leaves
with its beauty turned to dare
Eastern Whip-bird cracks
the lash to rouse sleepy heads
who missed the alarm
stumbled wobbly out of bed—
hoping no one would notice
The Welcome Swallow
adept aerial maestro—
dazzles watching throngs
with its acrobatic stunts
snatching at insects mid-flight
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