Sunday, November 09, 2008

three wee poems

the bush

This morning I woke up to rare spring rain.
the thyme had been thinning greying
in the desert front
midst of cobwebs and drooping straps
carelessly dealt with.

With rain it shines and enlivens.
No watering can can compare.
It's all it should be
all of a sudden.

By afternoon dull thiness is back, almost,
for hope's colour just remains
and a tiny trace of body, or mind.

life long learning

Treason, strange word nowadays
in a world of sharing
your secret's with me
your face my book

William Joyce was hanged.
He hated Jews.
That wasn't nice.
his poor parents died before him
which was a good thing

and if he were alive today
ever in his prime
to witness his death and aftermath
and ever after
wouldn't he feel the fool

Time wounds all heels 
and heals all wounds

thank you 

Your music somehow does it

the mood
for spare stark words

I feel precise and languid
warmly human and sans nonsense

a kind of love
disembodied unfortunately
but that has its place
a place that saves



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