We thought that moving to a place

with springs, grass-field and butterflies

would make it better for us, but it was all vanity;

like in the city when we were complaining about overdue bills,

traffic, noise and lack of privacy,

we are now polluting this serene place

with our petty fights.

If it is possible to move to heaven right now,

I think God would kick us back to this blue ball……..

Honey, I think it’s time that we change our attitude

towards each other, and rekindle our passionate love,

One must be in the moment to enjoy the tea,
a time of contemplation; nowhere else to be.
Aroma, taste and warmth alone to hold one’s thought.
A sentimental cup and may perhaps a pot.

Arrange a lovely view to set the mind at ease
and should it be outside allow naught but a breeze.
Then choose the tea with care- it must be brewed to soothe,
a bitter taste or something cultivated smooth.

You smacked a moratorium
Across my mouth,
An invisible hand that said:
"cordoned off, keep out"

Ideas were muffled,
Freedom of speech, A no-go
Whatever was said
Represented a no-show

You built a wall
So high I couldn't see
Not past or around,
Merely, inside of me.

You scratched away
The surface of my smile
Said "hide it", don't confide it
You look like a clown".

Ounces Steeped Out…

I once stepped out on to the stage of time,
after all I know how the actors do act.
They’re mostly in pursuance of mime,
you know it to, it’s a moment we refract.

We can play to an audience of just one,
behold the actors find they’re in love.
Simply that’s the way it’s always done,
all that they needed was a gentle glove.

But when audience becomes two or more,
as they pass on to a different set or stage.
Rattling on like a train to a musical score,
that’s when notes become difficult to gauge.

stale palm
the sweat work pallour
knocks the sun slipping

honorary scars
and sun dyed cars
a desert blossom
in a cacti needle forest
glistening sting

knuckle
fallen
rest

with overcast
shades

a ventilators
steps
risen
and dropping

barometric
loves flame
in the cupola
of a pilot game

take wing
pretty verse
in a slipstream
orchid dusk

pressed
on peaches
of gravity

 Dry are the tears         that are never shed,Rolling down in silence         along the golden thread.  They are the warriors       whose stories are never told,Born amidst the torments         with nothing to hold.  Fighting constantly to hold the mask         and never to reveal,The battle to defeat the pain         and conquer Achilles' heel.  The cries of the heart are masked        

Silently, under cover of darkness
an elephant child is born.
He feels the comfort of his mothers trunk
as he blinks in the first light of dawn.

The monkeys cry “it’s a boy, it’s a boy,
and look at him isn’t he cute”.
A male gorilla drum beats his chest,
and the bonobo throws them some fruit.

The forest is filled with lively chatter,
from excitable chimpanzees.
Juvenile Infants play peek-a-boo
while their mothers watch from the trees.

https://docs.google.com/file/d/0B1CDwQMLJs6QeHI0NFVpVjA2dnc/edit?usp=do…

The brightness
Of of car lights
Are as blinders
Covering my eyes

My lens out of focus
Obscured in the dawn
Descending on me
Before rising of the morning sun

The popping in my neck
Dull pain in my back
Weakness in my knees
Tingling in my legs and feet, seized me

Fairies in trees,
Honkas as imaginary friends,
taking flight with elves,
to unknown realms,
Shamanic journeys
to aid or attack,
as a Shaman should.

Have all gone the way of sceptical atheism,
yet they remain.

magic is simply that which has not yet been explained by science

so there must still be a lot of magic in the world.

Boy, is it hard to be writing a verse like this.

Patiently presenting amazing story lines.

Perhaps I should be more careful and listen more.

after all writing is funny and exciting.

BOY, is it / HARD to be / WRIT..ing..a / VERSE like this.

PA..tient..ly / PRE..sen..ting / AMA..z..ing / STOR..y lines.