A woman from old London Town
Walked the streets in a beautiful crown
Not a stitch on to wear
Though she'd couffured her hair
But where on earth was her gown?
In the baseball playoffs, the mighty Chicago Cubs went down
Outscored 12 – 1, 'the sluggers' sneaked out of town
On the other side of the city, the news was much better
The once-awful Chicago White Sox advanced to the second round
Most everyone thought the Sox would absorb another whipping
Guess the south-siders forgot to read their press clippings
Farewell to my small town
I left there Sunday
Turned my back on my friends
What can I say
Seems an election of mine
was a tad out of line ...
I'm heartsick already
for this I'm too old
Without my companions
I'm not quite so bold
as to proclaim small towns
breed only small minds ...
Though alas, no room in their hearts
for even one different kind
When asked if I am home
By those I don't wish to be around
I say that I'm about to leave
I say that i am about to leave
somewhere I know they can't go
Due to the fact
I also have no clue where it
Is that I am going
or when I get there if I'll stay
So instead I say
I'm out of town
Somewhere no one
Would look for me
Or for who I was with
Because I'm with him
Him being the one
Who has shown me these new places
Where we have made
many new memories
In every way possible
He completes me
And it is him
That is the view
From out of town
Because he is home
Away from home
When I am not there when
Some one knocks
Or rings my doorbell
Or puts their ears up to hear
If anyone is there being silent
Is anyone there trying to be quiet
I am not home in my home
But I am home when
I’m With him
Shawls,
of dream,
clouds droll wink,
serene skim oe’r,
dark grey urban plinths,
that pierce glazed amber sky,
sonic bell toll’s eardrum plops,
impetus to stir first flush throng,
plumes of steam from gurgling pool billow,
a fickle fountain sprinkles high-pitch wail
All the fireflies of the town
Have gathered in front of
The Town Hall.
Being mere sources of light
Not worm
Nor life.
Mere sources of light -
The way sometimes
Humans become
Mere genitals.
I can't look at their light
Are they brighter than the Sun?
I can look straight into
The sun, Day and Night.
Still, I can't look at
The Fireflies
Like the people who
Look at the genitals
Can never look at
The Eyes.
A PEEVED OFF DOUG FORD
WITH TRUMP, HE HAS STRUCK A CHORD
NOW TRUMP WANTS FORD GORED
Amidst ¦¦¦ flowers ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ wine,
I pour alone ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ I invite the Moon,
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ Moon does not ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ drink,
My shadow ¦¦¦¦¦¦ follows the movement of my body.
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ shadow ¦¦¦ keep me company a while,
The practice of mirth should keep pace with spring.
I start a song and ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ dance and the shadow moves grotesquely.
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ let's rejoice with one another,
¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ again far in the Milky Way.
(Blackout of Amidst the Flowers a Jug of Wine by Li Bai)
nestled in small town
poets, writers , and hippies
living peacefully
I went across the field of daisies
Lavenders and tulips too
The time around was self-erasing
Flowers bent as I walked through
Stepped onto a wooden path
Trees ahead were falling down
Leafy branches I did pass
Out of woods I went to town
It was raining through the sunlight
Garbage and recycling bins
Stood there overflown as I
Passed the cobblestone old streets
I’ve found your house rang the door
Someone else’s voice proclaimed
You don’t live there anymore
And they can’t recall your name
Then I died and went away
Cause the dead can walk unseen
So I do this everyday
Walking in and out of screen.
Wherever I turned
a cloud of flies in front of me
blotting out day, blocking my way
rubbing their legs, buzzing away
leaving me nothing good to say
Was there no solution
to the atmosphere’s dissolution
Seeing none, I doubled down
~ tried out my frown in a different town
Up in a castle, castle far waste, fields full of snow droft, skies black,fog,gray.
Time frozen ice, where no one can stay,day top of day, a life's faded cake.
Cake frosting layed, on top layers stay, a day's magic flake, for sunsets on lakes.
Moon lit night, shade of light, pale like skies, on rooms up high.
Golden gates, inside blue lakes, of snow form flakes, a light shine fades.
Sunset moon, ice cold blue, stars shine too, in loft snow loon.
Empty jewels, in lands of fools, in diamond rooms, and frosty tombs.
Eyes of blue, ocean moon, time too soon, in castle ruins.
From out of this hill's wide girth
Have shaped, and stately
Though old, and at rest
A grand dame's posture.
In folds of its lower slopes
Traced, spread out, before
With bluebell threaded
Gown's timeless allure.
I've had my fill of the surface scene for now.
Navigating this new age mania and tectonic indifference.
I'm sailing underground to anchor up in glia monster town.
They're all poisonous down here but mostly harmless.
They flash colors, so you know where you stand
There's a steep learning curve, that's for certain
But everybody minds their own, without demands.
There's no sparring for the attention of the sun.
Everyone is in shadow; we're equally grounded.
No keeping up with the Joneses and Jetsons.
We're cool as ice bears and snow penguins.
No biters here to abbreviate your fate.
No gamblers to piss away all your pay.
No sniffers or grifters playing smelly games.
No angels on milk cartons, the young are all safe.
No stompers or sliders in red surface shoes.
Bleeding out on our palette of sweet, baby blue.
Sometimes the clack on the surface
seeps down through the cracks.
That's when the Gilas become a bit restless.
With a flicker of grace, the polluted are purified.
Soon enough, peace is restored to its place.
Sliding back into the charity of silence.
I'm thriving and have no desire to surface.
The African night goes robust with
silence and attentiveness.
Darkness, grave, deep and merciless,
hisses remorselessly but soundlessly.
The moon is on a visit to her grandmother
Fireflies on bulrushes give blinking light, like exhausted
Twinkling stars expelled from heaven.
Post-suppertime, belching stomachs recline on
Whims of a slow-travelling night with faithful
Silhouettes walking ahead of stalking shadows.
Orchestral insects keep the night company
Folktales steal into this power of darkness —
A breathing nocturnal art with the pulse of
Communal growth . . .
The town crier is abroad
He needs no other identity but his voice,
A foghorn in the entrenched darkness.
Next is his wooden gong,
An instrument of life.
His voice rides smoothly through the night —
At times with punch, some other times
With the sound of glory . . .
And when there’s gloom,
With the sonorous flow of woe.
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