Great bloom of love,
like the flush of colour
that blushes mountains in the evening light,
its sudden burst of realisation
entertained in silken robes of red and pink,
as the sun sinks ever deeper into the horizon's brink,
eclipses the senses,
darkens the must of scented breath,
all panting like the fangs of fox and badger,
tongues hanging out, night 's animals
that burrow far beneath the ground, in mounds
that, Venus-like, resound with pants and gasps,
as flowers push up through the loam to light,

Let us raise a little glass
and blow on little trumpets.
Let us toast, dear friend of mine
while the minutes march ahead.

Time is swift and time is soothing,
but memory disturbs the dream of living.
Dark the shadows, long the raincoats,
the pitter-patter of the raindrops
oft reminds and often hinders
one from going about their daily duties.

Still let us raise a little glass
and blow on little trumpets.
Fairies make me glad by day
and singing elves by night.

bear me oh wind
your fissured realm
show shivers in the dream mirrors

and your cauldron of tears
the river lanes of rains call
and I feel them fall

dancing in the dark
and leeching through
the cracks and dust
sweet errant memory
swept free
the sheltered craft
for a journey to take

awake thee spirit
and flesh
for I have slept
while the towers leaned
pressed with the pursuant
winds

the streamer quest

young chemical voodoo eyes
sedated from fates
torn from swollen infected wombs

quixotic wards of indifference

nettle the Mercedes peace

gaunt parody’s of scholastic dreams
huddle together in their purgative sanctum

a scourge upon the chaste

untouchables

puberties barely blossomed
guidance shrewdly abandoned

derision their loft
from which they may exonerate the
ignorant

bestowing
their unbathed sweat

Baptizing the odium

For all the wondrous peals of shared, sad, laughter
At the frivolities and serendipities of life.

For all the care and listening given non quid pro quo
On accounts tallied against future interest.

For the quiet calming silences made the more so
By the gentle ssssssssnip of grey white locks.
The hummmmmmed clip of tumbling tresses.

For the knowing without asking.
The questions and answers spoken by our eyes.
For the love of stories told and spirits called.

For these we give thanks.

my in search of happiness

to my imagination
happiness is simply a state of mind;
it has nothing to do with money or wealth,
health
maybe yes.

But some with scores of dollars
are unhappy,
many with a loaf of bread are found smiling,
some have sex daily with many,
but are dissatisfied …
others don’t know what it means
and are still happy
saints they!

Empty corridors leading to
rooms that hold the sounds
as to the heighth and breadth of a life;

blasphemy and unconditional love
has exited simultaneously
from, said mouth.

Avenues plowing through to
dens, that shelter the sights
as to the width and depth of a life;

honesty and deceptional activities
have existed at the same time,
from said brain.

it sounds insane
but, the fact still remains,
truer words, were never spoken;

nocturnal daydreams
slumber of elder babies
rescued briefly
battered, beaten, broken ones
inhale deep
relief fading
abrasive, harsh transmission waves
lapping over sacred grounds
soothed lullabies jolted
scorching light consumes
inevitable reality

The Lotus Eaters [Euthanasia]

They ate of the seed of the lotus
hues of yellow white and dawn red
scents of eastern spices
gracefully flowing
on a warm Aegean breeze
and into the bliss of forgetfulness
they fell
lost to this world’s dreaming
no thoughts of a Heaven
no fears of a hell
and from a distance
I saw their wanderings
these eaters of the lotus seed
as each began to fade
into a sleep strange
and still
never to wake again.

Longo-Geremia

that night when words were whispering
and the room was quiet and stark
the thought in fearless beguile
mounted the empty page

like muses from the ages
it clasped the trembling hand
and in a fondled embrace
penned the painted picture down

courage sprung from syllables
from impressions old as time
and in that blessed time span
many a poem was conceived

i enthuse - my existence
resembles not an illusion
nor a sheer waste of ink
but rather a portrait
or a spirited work of art