I've a spare Red Horse beer.
I'd give it to a Mustang pilot called Fredericks.
We can talk planes and drink.
I'd tell him how we looked for your location.
Sunny 8 impacted Castleshaw Moor.
Don't you know my friend and I looked thrice.
We never found your warplane.
Though I found true peace up there.
I wanted to stay up on the moor.
For I had no issues, felt free.
At quiet times, I remember.
Next year, we find your aeroplane.
I will return from a third of world away to look.
And remember the cost.
Freedom and flying is not free.
Nor is gunning Nazis down in turbulent skies.
Your beer is undrunk.
Death and time are in the way.
But intent and memories cross the divide.
No sadness, a salute...
Inhaling and exhaling life one Marlboro Red at a time.
Those devil sticks sucking the satin from her face.
She'd wrinkles that could put a Shar Pei to shame.
She earned every one of those wrinkles in spades.
Despite battalions of carcinogens
She lived for about 383 seasons.
A life garnished with laughter- love- respect.
Surviving 2 world wars and a black divorce mess
Abuse-humiliation- loneliness -neglect.
Burying two husbands and scores of friends.
And a curly-headed girl in a lavender dress.
She passed on the wisdom of the ancients.
Only a few ever really cared enough to listen.
Lessons forever forgotten, timeless elixirs undrunk.
All becoming yellowing stains upon the brooch of death.
Leaves has bowed to tempting look of the moon
Turning into amber or crimson red
Fire in the wind has been smoothly hewn
As pleasant "hello" tickling cold breeze said
The burnt umber earth laughs at being rain fed
Laying child bed for pinecones, pumpkin
Ah, stage set to mark climb and fall herein
Heart pines for him, his love, his argent arm
To see moon hung between naked tree trunk
Rain of petals swirl down cheek to disarm
Me of bearing to stay for long undrunk
Everyday i pick up saffron flower
Cinnamon sticks and ginger swollen leaves
To make autumn present for my lost love
(Re old poems)
The luncheon of French bourgeoisie under frilly striped awning.
Young fair maiden, rosy cheeks- beguiling her eyes; leans on the railing.
Amidst fruits and undrunk wine in amorous air strokes dog, a wife.
Men look askance in yellow straw hats, faces muse in blazing whites.
Quivering tints alive on a terrace, evolve in sunbathed human life.
``
Based on Auguste Renoir's painting - ''Luncheon of the Boating Party''
I know the way you feed
your wife and children.
I see you asleep at daytime
as though it were night.
The bamboo floor
complains about your
body weight and
length of unconsciousness.
You move and change
position to achieve
the most comfortable
stance, and the kubo (hut)
you have built for your
family shakes, and the
loosely fastened or nailed
structures creak, and
it irritates the lizards
adopted by your
hospitable house.
The vacant, fertile backyard
shouts to waken,
but you are deaf.
The tansan (bottle cap) of newly
opened liquor of your
neighbor falls and
touches the ground and
clangs and, now,
cures your unique deafness
and wakes you up.
Your kumpare (male friend) invites you
for "one shot,"
but you violate some
math rules and
equate one shot
to two cuatro-cantos (gin).
You come home
zigzagging, uttering
words not found
in your undrunk vocabulary.
Before the door
you throw up and
feed the dogs
with your delicious pulutan (viand).
Your hungry wife
screams in anger
and sets innocent, empty
kalderos (cooking pot) in flight.
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