I.
brittle elegy's seedlings, the night swings
its petticoat leg,
while small birds
(still spinning dinosaur's songs)
flying like poetic wounds
inside deepenst evolution's mouth;
what kind of disease will feed your hunger now?

II.
I distill the colours of distant stars,
inside a grain of sand; plastic hands
carry the smoke of cruelty
(with its new feathers)
with money-smiles
and unholy holiness
maintaining the balance
of mediocrity and sad eyes;

As the eastern sun rises
we’re on our way.
The dawn is slowly breaking,
waking up a new day.

We’re headed for the south coast
leaving Swansea,
motoring down the M4,
bags packed for the journey.

On the rolling grassy hills
lambs jump play,
sheep still in their overcoats
until the month of May.

A far distant mountain range
intrudes the sky,
peaking over valley plains
where buzzards hunt and fly.

Today I passed a cotton gin
at a crossroads far from town
wearing a metal hide of rusty tin
and sagging sheds near fallen down.

So I pulled just off the road
and took in the surrounding land
of scattered recent hobby farms
and an aging farm house, grand.

In mind's eye I subtracted years
removed pastures and tall pine trees
until gin and farm house stood alone
and cotton poison tainted the breeze.

DECEPTION

"And where have you been, all this day,
My pretty one, my love so fair?"
"I've been to visit with sick friends,
Oh husband mine, for whom I care."

"Then why the perfume and the dress
As if invited to a ball?"
" Dear John, your questions make me laugh,
Have you no trust in me at all?"

" I am not well, and should I die
Would you re-marry, in your prime?"
" No! no! my John, perish the thought!
Well.... maybe, after quite some time."

I was a king
With my prince by my side
A king made of silver and gold
A house to live in this king could provide

With my son the prince by my side
The meaning of silver and gold
Should have been my assiduous love born of the light in his eye?

All work and no play set a paradigm
That silver and gold was only the means
For my own selfish pride
I cannot change those childhood years of his life
Or even give a reason when he ask me to fly

Wicked ways of a world fat and greedy
hungry and needy angry and scheming
it’s hard to focus on anything but hopelessness
with all those innocent people screaming

Shoot before breach Swing before speech
launch but don’t weep because the civilians cannot sleep.
Perpetuating violence destroyer of societies vengeful and mindless.
An entire world changed in the blink of an eye lid.

Combat seeking Militant beings trade Blood for oil Until they have completely lost the meaning

you brush me with your tenderlust
trust
held with ring shinning fingers
and dazzle nails gleaming
like moist paint

breath against me in sigh
punctuation
how I love the slow commas

warm like lantern lamps
on oilskin table tops
and hemp rope held
tarpaulin rooms

I follow the curve of your
hip delved with mystery
the smooth plain
of stomach and then
the foothill ribcage
the hill of breast

The old sundial
tells the time
without knowing it

The chronicles continue
for this man called, "UFO",
he's also known as Richard
the "Desert Rose", where he may go.

I penned a poem, once before
and again when I wrote of the "hood",
he chronicles his UFO sightings
but, sometimes he's misunderstood.

Some say that he's eccentric
or maybe as crazy as the Hatter,
what they think doesn't "ruffle" him
in fact, it doesn't really matter.

During the month when leaves unfurl
and dogwoods bloom in purest white
come the storms with tails which curl
sweeping away all within their flight

I've had a brush with one before
and still recall to this late day
the silence then the freight train roar
when once a small one came my way

It had been a spring day of thunder
where ragged clouds filled southern sky
leaving my new bride and me to wonder
when the storms would finally pass us by