Near ocean surf, buds bloom.
Duet-sashay in silky dress.
Side to side sway of locks.
Teeny feet in tall grass.
Brunette and strawberry blonde.
Pinwheel-limbs like pale ballerinas.
Midnight-bare without glass,
Fairy-soles in overgrown freesia.
Sisters in momentum of glee.
Brushed eyes, opened and closed.
Dreamers adrift on waft canvas.
Ebb-flow of pink stars, superimposed.
A Waft of Smoke, Old Whisky Twist
There he sat on Amnesty Bench,
Stoking his pipe with a pen,
A waft of smoke, old whisky twist,
Recollections of way back when.
This gentleman of senior years,
Appeared thoughtful, quietly content.
Tell me your story, I’d love to know,
What kind of life had you spent.
Looking at him across the street,
He briefly motioned, but did not speak,
I heard words of wisdom and love,
A soft voice, a little frail, a little weak.
I’d seen him many times before,
Sat alone at his favourite station;
Perhaps he was just there for me,
To deliver a message of affirmation.
We did seem to have an acquaintance,
Even though I don’t know his name.
In a blink the old Gent was gone,
Curiously I never saw him again.
waddle along wise women
whisper this wayfarer’s wishes
with will and warmth
wind your way- waggling wheels
whiz this way and wear my wit to my wiry wonder
wiggling wave wash my wits
weave my words like a wreath
and wedge them on my winsome would-be
wag my wealthy words whirling wind
waft my wonderful words to my waiting woman
When I come back, Belen,
the moon will be whole.
I’ll jump over the fence,
in front of the door I’ll stand
with my heart in hands.
Mad heart, mad heart
at the night for burning.
You will go out, Belen,
will you go out,
my skin is white,
the eyes are black.
My horse is beating hooves
in the flint. Let it beat.
A wave is beating into the shore.
Let it beat.
Three hundred people are crying.
Will three hundred people cry
for my blood red.
Mad heart, mad heart
at the night burnt.
I’ll be back, Belen.
And let nobody knows me!
Stars gleam in darkness
as the lank pines resemble ghosts,
owls fly towards me...
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