I have chosen a life
Far more than reasons to believe
What dissidence would call
A wandering bitterness
And emptiness.

I have said the words much
With mumblings and groans from the mouth
Of my salutation.
God have mercy on my soul
And lukewarm form.

War clouds are gathering and covering the sun-
War clouds, collecting one by one;
And, though they may avert a battle in a distant sea,
Still, war clouds a-gather, oh together, over me

War clouds are gathering and filling up the sky:
War clouds that darken by and by…
Out in the wilderness, young girls must lose their lives
At the altar of the sanctimonious Sacrifice of Wives,
At the Martyrdom of Motherhood, ensnared in webs and lies…

Like wind billowing the sails
your breath fills my lungs

sailing on passionate waves
we discover that virgin Island
where wild fruits
ripened in desire
wait to be plucked
by our hungry fingers
to stoke the fire in our loins
with their nectars
till the seeds are released
in wild abandon

we wake
with gentle waves lapping
at our moorings
ready to sail once again
to yet another sanctuary
inhaling lung fulls
of your seducing breath...

Of Concupiscence

I learnt this word today,
What a desire I must say,
Of inner intimacy,
The only way,
Man and woman have since aeons
Been at play

Wow I have passed through that passage
More than once,
What a dunce,
Never knew the finesses of concupiscence,
Till I have had this opportunity just once,
Let’s con... what ever now and today,
Lay bare and we shall play,
Till orgasm after orgasm,
Does our life take away

Oh Laura you are in love, but what can you do
for he has gone so far away, so far away from you.
As you switch on the TV, to see the News at Ten
you start to wonder if you will ever see him again.

As he was driving his army jeep, along the dusty road
there was an explosion ahead, a land mine he was told.
The jeep was hit by the blast as bleeding he hit the ground
but soon he was relieved to see army medics gather around.

As I turn the pages of his notebook from the war
I can almost see him sitting there, in the heat of Jubbulpore
a soldier, far away from home, from friends and family
pen and paper in his hands, he sits beneath the tree
writing to the one he loves, careful not to say
anything which might distress her, while he is so far away.

I’m gonna tell you all a story
Each word of which is true
It don’t cover me in glory
There’s much that I still rue

It was on the banks of the Barron River
Not quite true to say I woke
More un-passed out is the way to put it
But then I was that sort of bloke

I crawled from the van where I’d lain
And panic set in in a flash
Bamboo towered over so high and so thick
It threatened to topple the world
I was sure to be thrown off into space
After being violently sick

Once upon a time there was a happy village.It was set in a peaceful valley, far from most big cities. In this village about everybody made chairs.Some made metal modern chairs.Some made chairs of plastic.Some made modern chairs of mixed metal and plastic.Others made only fancy chairs of the most exotic woods. These were of elegant style with curves and intricate carving. Yet others made plain chairs whose simple forms had a grace of a different type.Even primitive looking chairs were made of sticks and logs. About every type chair you could think of was found here.

In anguish she steals to her tent
no time to think, no time to plan
gathers up supplies to travel
she has to run to save her man

Sneaks carefully out of the village
avoiding all the major routes
but, when barely out of sight
absence is announced by shouts

Now fleeing down the mountain ridges
pursuit begun by angry braves
all skilled in tracking and in hunting
prey down to their deaths and graves

In a poem
I place delight
Where rhythm is solemn
And rhymes come
In various forms of music
Pleasant to the pitch
Of a tattered ear.

As it ends
Meter after meter,
So ends the testimony
Made by my silent voice.
Delight is dead
And the soul speaks
No more.