You bought the house with lavender
seeded in the front porch.
The scent flutters between the doorsill
and through the letterbox
like bills overdue and invoices outstanding. A postal aroma,
envelope glue smells like flowers to me.

I was never granted the privilege of rearranging flowers
You said, there was more to life than flora,
these emerald, sap dripping, saturated stems
Swelling petals fascinated under my untried eyes,
You said I must not even graze the things.

I longed for a taste of the forbidden flora.
Did buds taste like honey? Were they sour like you told me?
Would they poison these supple
and innocent lips, turn them pink to grey?
Could tastebuds kiss the perennial vines,
the posies, the spray of efflorescence
A taste of simple sweetness -

I remember when you ripped the front-porch-lavender.
The roots could not resist your claws.
You sweat to mutilate strained flowers,
You always work harder. Verdure spoiled.
Ravaged, ruptured, tanked soil.

(A Tribute to Ted Slade - poet, 1937-2004)

This new friendship. This journey on which we were just setting out.

How will we work it now you've...well...gone?

It was going so well. That's the way I saw it anyhow.

It had only been a year - we two - back in each other's circle...

Same planet - different orbit. Though I'll never know now what your thoughts might have been..



This 52 year gap in our 'acquaintance', for that's all you'd ever say it was
,
it closed at dad's (your Uncle Bud's) funeral - as he leapt 'on-flame' to the ether.

He didn't half want to go..."Why don't they just let me slip away?"
And then it was you I wanted to know amongst those finger buffet scoffers.

Those ribboned aces never knew that Bud just kick-started their Lancasters and 'Spits' at Leconfield and Liberia.



Bud's morphine muted passing proved positive, and thankfully at last - 

(he might remember now) - he helped kick-start too this belated kinship between us.

Jack would have been pleased about that...(Bud too I know)

"a good trade" he'd have called it. "I'm knackered anyway".

I was always curious about our respective dads - they only ever sent Christmas cards...no letters. No love.



Bud gave me a book  before he swapped "heaven's hopper" for the "take & bake".

"Eer-yar" he wheezed...this is more up your street than mine..."

"Yer what?..."Poetry?...No... I can't make head nor tail of it. Like Shakespeare...Where's me glasses?"

and, with that ,the "Last Arm Pointing" welded that closing gap between us tight shut.

I read 'Mystery Tour' to Bud...about Jack's 'motorised passing' and he cried. So, it was up his street. after all.



Your words filled me in on distant memories...made solid.
Missing chunks I'd seen but never written down
.
Of Withernsea and its winter isolation

of Jack, his life - and how it intertwined with yours.

I've not found too much yet about Phyllis. Is there a darker story there? Who'll tell me now?



Your final work, tireless as ever, from your New Malden 'crow's nest'...

was steering your second collection to print...and then...

Your literally-literal Mugs and Sweats - flying off the shelves of a California warehouse.

Disabled? Pah!  Why should they ever know the what & why behind the who and when?

Your 'disability'...would only 'publicly' let you down if your trike sustained a puncture in Richmond Park.



"Hi Cuz...Where do I go to get mugs and sweat shirts printed?"

And then, whilst I was looking through directories & old invoices,

you whizzed across the earth on the wings of your laser guided mouse.

By the time I'd got the phone numbers of long distance, half remembered contacts -

you had designs submitted, distribution and royalty deals sorted and were planning the next big thing.



Your freehold on the planet was the web...your very own super-short cut.

Who needs invalid cars when you can 'fly digital'?

You were a lover of the dub-dub-dub which loved you back in floods.

Now, even when your body has deserted you - it still throws us pages and pages - of you - and about you.

The Noddy Holders and Wes the Western Gun-slinger, pale by comparison, they'd envy your PR knack.



Instead of trying to phone, (these heavenly BT - or is it ET-connections often end in wrong numbers)...

and, because a lot of the time talking took it out of you, I'll keep writing like I did before.

Replies would be good. But I often used to write out of turn anyway.

So yes, things could get a bit one sided...forgive me if I 'go on', and... you don't!

But I'll keep writing to [email protected] and read the answers in your books and old e-mails of the family's past.



Cheers Ted...Lots of love Chris (Cuz) Slade.

Bills  Bills  Bills  Bills
Never a Sam or Clyde
I simply can’t get out of debt
No matter how I’ve tried.

Bills  Bill  Bills  Bills
They come in twos and threes.
I wish that I could get a loan
To help me pay for these.

My credit score is way too low;
It’s only six-o-five.
I know they’ll never loan the dough
That I need to survive.

I didn’t know which way to turn
Until I spoke to Frank
He kindly said he’d lend a hand -
And help me rob a bank.

We put disguises on my face
And he pulled out a gun
We got some money in our bag
And took off on the run.

But we didn’t get too far
The coppers had us nailed.
They hauled us up before a judge
And both of us were jailed.

The problem now has gone away
My room and board is free
I have no monthly bills to pay
So I’m the winner, don’t you see.
ljm

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All he could see were numbers
that reached out and grabbed taxes
and takes, invoices and expenditures.
He could not see explanations of delight
that little mistake I made with fringe benefits,
those royalties that never came.
In the end his only concern was to pay the taxes
to build the roads, skyways and airports
where he would travel and stay.

I wondered how he slept at night
cocooned in numbers
just 1-9 with a hefty zero
that made the difference between rich and poor

I wondered how he could survive on numbers
no cucumbers, sunshine salads, beach beauties,
high waves of reckless living, low tides of penniless nights
and endless days of counting little many times over.

He said to me once: Save every cent,
fortify yourself against depression and
natural disasters, don't spend lavishly
there's a price to pay
cut up your credit card. Live austerely.

Oh yeah?. That same day I got an extra CC,
a nice Merc, some good looking sunglasses
(to shield my eyes from the accountants glare)
and a cruise to the Mediterranean
where the blue waters beckoned.

The accountant visited the GP
twice more than me that year.
I'm still working the fat off at the gym.
( I suspect petty poets do the same thing all the time?)
Author Notes

Anyone know this guy?

Check this Novel out!

The Chrysanthemum Trilogy: Transition
Marshall E Gass
ISBN 9781493137848

We could tuck ourselves in a crevice,
between a wall
and view the stones
for what they really are.

Let the light loom over us,
shade us from the heat;
The warmth of a halogen bulb
highlighting the street.

And it’s there we’d kiss,
and spark cigarettes,
and forget why we came here,
and let no one in, let alone near,
and we’d have a private joke,
like small font liner notes,
and for that two minutes,
(more work for the coffee mule)
we would overlook the important
stuff, for
that’s what it is,
another 70, at best, years
of toil and fluff.

*This tableaux love affair
will be omitted in years to come,
filed under the ‘lusts that resulted in
no fun, that night’ folder
in the great green cabinet of bills,
bills, bills again invoices.

(This poem was written during the first year of the war.)

Lay me down to sleep
Before they push the button.

This ***** ain't tryin to wait for his own self destruction!

People really want peace
but you gotta have war,
because it pays the invoices
made by the White House imposed choices.

We need to be United
but politics and hypocrites
always remind us
that history repeats itself.

As it turns out
itself repeats history.
Repeats history
Repeats HIS - STORY!

It ain't a mystery!
You know what goes on in Capital hill!

What country pays its government more then the people who's supposed to be runnin it?
We do! America!

**** politics!

We down right greedy!
We got plenty to feed the needy!

But we'd rather spend tax payers money
to bomb a country
that at peace
I would like to be.

****-it, if I'm wrong!
Bush, please send my Mom and Dad home.

Realize that judgment day is comin'
and the truth untellers on the hill
are the first ones hit
when God's wrath comes down rumblin.

I got somethin' on my mind
so I speak to you.

God help us
when it comes time to be with you.

You can only tell a lie for so long
before the truth sees the light.

That's when karma
puts it on ya'
and explains your persona
so that people see through your tainted ora.

Life is like a Pandora -
boxed with centuries of pandemonium and disorder.

Blessed are those who are weak
God, to you I speak.

THIS IS AMERICA CALLIN'!!


Thank you for reading!


Amaru
www.twitter.com/therealamaru

Invoices received.
Aristocratic atrocities of hypocrisy
Thier voices mock & decieve
Place thier stock in your creed
Cash your check and then leave
No wonder you don't believe!
Through this;
What has been achieved?
Wheres your heart?
On your sleeve?!
If life is pain,
whats it mean to relieve?!
"HERE! just take (2) aleve,
And when it's over you'll see
What I need you to be."
   -thee enemy

Whole again.
The lady is entire.
Amazed by the skill of a fellow artist.
The art of  dentistry.
The morning crept in shakily.
She is a coward, the lady.
Petrified of dental work.
Dentist is a perfect ****.
It's what he does his field of work.
He, the dentist, a genius touch,
I bet he can't write a poem or line.
That position is mine.
For him, an exception maybe invoices.
A choice I made.
I'm glad I paid.
I made the most worthwhile choices.
It didn't hurt a bit.
I didn't feel a thing.
Thank you dentist, see you soon!
(c) Livvi

How could it be
that it's just me
wondering when we
will laugh again with glee.

What scared ghost do we flee
into Summer's buzzing bee
passed a late Falling tree?

I grant that he
has a good degree
and a family pedigree,
but aren't we all free?

I feel tainted with frosty
touches of Northern fee,
invoices billed from a Cree
living in tent or tipi
while burning my effigy.

Down on one knee
at a Maypole jubilee,
drunk and happy,
tragically at the end greedily
eating too much Sandra Lee,
that's me!

Half squinting a dopie
smile and slanting queer
boats with rhyming keel,
I barter with a misty sea,
wanting badly to ***,
but instead shade my eyes to see.

Discarded to dry.

I am helpless, tied to my daily routine
Knowing that distance stands in my way
Concrete and asphalt paths may lead to you
but the detour called life keeps me from moving

        You lie in pain, it is endless it seems
        Draining of smiles and stamina, encroaching on freedoms
        Bringing your heart to the curb, wallowing in confusion
        Deep within the grip of fever’s melting shadows

Invoices pile up and calculator batteries run down
A swift arm across this desk reveals my frustration
As folders and tape dispensers collect in a pile on the floor
staring up, wondering, “What did we do?”

        You cry of dreams shattered and an eclipsing sun
        swaying in darkness on couch cushions
        deformed and buckling under the pressure
        as illness makes itself at home

If only I could be there, by your side
Doing what…I don’t know, something, anything
Holding your hand, brushing your hair
Silent whispers of affection, whether they do any good or not

        You sleep, short periods of painless still
        Beneath sweat drenched sheets, locked away in nightmare cages
        Seething and fuming on horrors door step
        Pleading for help that you know wont come

And here I am, shackled to a wooden structure with sticking drawers
Smirking employees and annoying customers
doing their best to distract me, as I write…poetry
Yeah, poetry…love verses because…well…because

it is the only way I can touch you
and
        still your skin eludes me

The tabs are listening still
manila bent fat folders
past due bills and debt remitted
collected stuffed and sorted
in the freeze of a moment
when I wasn't a friend
when I defiled a trust
when I spent the last
thin dime of integrity
on a dust filed upstairs
with the titles  brittle
invoices and expired
warrantees.

The phone may ring
to renew the service
between me and you
and I'll drop the handle
into the cradle
of a familiar voice
without a word
without a thought
our crisp linen days
pushed away
while a rusting washer
screams another load
and a cabinet drawer
inches out a little bit more

To lead the land with a steady hand
Is easier said than done.
For since you have power
And have vowed never to cower
Your real troubles are just begun.

To lead the land with a steady hand
Takes more than just being the boss.
You must be willing to make sacrifices
-Not of  your own devices-
To stand up and bear your own cross.

To lead the land with a steady hand
Requires courage, will, and time.
Forced to make very hard choices
Over employees and invoices
And explain the reason where there is no rhyme.

To lead the land with a steady hand
Is a pressing, tiring feat
But upon returning home
You have no time of your own
None to rest your wearisome feet.

To lead the land with a steady hand
To us you try to explain
The principles you use;
Misunderstood, they light your short fuse
Deep breaths, then you try to tell us again.

To lead the land with a steady hand
Is not appreciated as it should be
For in all that you do
In all you charge through
Those unfamiliar do not seem to see.

Your hands do not shake
Your legs do not quake
And rarely do you ever venture upon a mistake.
None but you really knows what it will take
To lead the land with a steady hand.

I think I might finally understand
My services are at your demand.
Lead me, father, help me learn how to command
And to lead the land with a steady hand.

What is the secret to finding the balance between school and marital life?
Trading in your books, and schedule for a white dress and bouquet
Throwing caution to a possibly bright future and bending to all his wants and needs
Making room for babies and china instead of hour long lectures and lab reports
I am unable to find a balance between the two
Do I carry breakfast in one hand and a calculator in the other
Do I keep a spatula handy as well as a pencil tucked behind my ear
Do I stay up to look after a sick partner when everyone is asleep or spend that time to study for an upcoming test
Do I opt for a morning smoothie or a morning coffee because I missed the 6’o clock alarm
Do I sit there and take the time to memorize a three page essay or all of his favorite meals in alphabetical order
Do write out of 750 essay or write out shopping list and invoices
Do I paste fake smile and twinkle in the eye and wear that all day long even though I am boiling mad underneath
Do I babysit my mother-in-law 6 days a week or spend time catching up on last weeks homework
Do I sweep, clean and do laundry for the next two hours as well as I agonize over a test I have not yet studied for
Do I climb into bed with him at a reasonable hour or spend the next 8 hours on late night assignments till early in the morning
How do I find the balance in all this?
What do I do first and leave for last?
I am ready to throw in the towel as well as my favorite ball point pen!