A Robin said: The Spring will never come,
  And I shall never care to build again.
A Rosebush said: These frosts are wearisome,
  My sap will never stir for sun or rain.
The half Moon said: These nights are fogged and slow,
I neither care to wax nor care to wane.
The Ocean said: I thirst from long ago,
  Because earth's rivers cannot fill the main.--
When Springtime came, red Robin built a nest,
  And trilled a lover's song in sheer delight.
  Grey hoarfrost vanished, and the Rose with might
  Clothed her in leaves and buds of crimson core.
The dim Moon brightened. Ocean sunned his crest,
  Dimpled his blue, yet thirsted evermore.

The First Voice

HE trilled a carol fresh and free,
He laughed aloud for very glee:
There came a breeze from off the sea:

It passed athwart the glooming flat -
It fanned his forehead as he sat -
It lightly bore away his hat,

All to the feet of one who stood
Like maid enchanted in a wood,
Frowning as darkly as she could.

With huge umbrella, lank and brown,
Unerringly she pinned it down,
Right through the centre of the crown.

Then, with an aspect cold and grim,
Regardless of its battered rim,
She took it up and gave it him.

A while like one in dreams he stood,
Then faltered forth his gratitude
In words just short of being rude:

For it had lost its shape and shine,
And it had cost him four-and-nine,
And he was going out to dine.

"To dine!" she sneered in acid tone.
"To bend thy being to a bone
Clothed in a radiance not its own!"

The tear-drop trickled to his chin:
There was a meaning in her grin
That made him feel on fire within.

"Term it not 'radiance,'" said he:
"'Tis solid nutriment to me.
Dinner is Dinner: Tea is Tea."

And she "Yea so? Yet wherefore cease?
Let thy scant knowledge find increase.
Say 'Men are Men, and Geese are Geese.'"

He moaned: he knew not what to say.
The thought "That I could get away!"
Strove with the thought "But I must stay.

"To dine!" she shrieked in dragon-wrath.
"To swallow wines all foam and froth!
To simper at a table-cloth!

"Say, can thy noble spirit stoop
To join the gormandising troup
Who find a solace in the soup?

"Canst thou desire or pie or puff?
Thy well-bred manners were enough,
Without such gross material stuff."

"Yet well-bred men," he faintly said,
"Are not willing to be fed:
Nor are they well without the bread."

Her visage scorched him ere she spoke:
"There are," she said, "a kind of folk
Who have no horror of a joke.

"Such wretches live: they take their share
Of common earth and common air:
We come across them here and there:

"We grant them - there is no escape -
A sort of semi-human shape
Suggestive of the man-like Ape."

"In all such theories," said he,
"One fixed exception there must be.
That is, the Present Company."

Baffled, she gave a wolfish bark:
He, aiming blindly in the dark,
With random shaft had pierced the mark.

She felt that her defeat was plain,
Yet madly strove with might and main
To get the upper hand again.

Fixing her eyes upon the beach,
As though unconscious of his speech,
She said "Each gives to more than each."

He could not answer yea or nay:
He faltered "Gifts may pass away."
Yet knew not what he meant to say.

"If that be so," she straight replied,
"Each heart with each doth coincide.
What boots it? For the world is wide."

"The world is but a Thought," said he:
"The vast unfathomable sea
Is but a Notion - unto me."

And darkly fell her answer dread
Upon his unresisting head,
Like half a hundredweight of lead.

"The Good and Great must ever shun
That reckless and abandoned one
Who stoops to perpetrate a pun.

"The man that smokes - that reads the TIMES -
That goes to Christmas Pantomimes -
Is capable of ANY crimes!"

He felt it was his turn to speak,
And, with a shamed and crimson cheek,
Moaned "This is harder than Bezique!"

But when she asked him "Wherefore so?"
He felt his very whiskers glow,
And frankly owned "I do not know."

While, like broad waves of golden grain,
Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,
His colour came and went again.

Pitying his obvious distress,
Yet with a tinge of bitterness,
She said "The More exceeds the Less."

"A truth of such undoubted weight,"
He urged, "and so extreme in date,
It were superfluous to state."

Roused into sudden passion, she
In tone of cold malignity:
"To others, yea: but not to thee."

But when she saw him quail and quake,
And when he urged "For pity's sake!"
Once more in gentle tones she spake.

"Thought in the mind doth still abide
That is by Intellect supplied,
And within that Idea doth hide:

"And he, that yearns the truth to know,
Still further inwardly may go,
And find Idea from Notion flow:

"And thus the chain, that sages sought,
Is to a glorious circle wrought,
For Notion hath its source in Thought."

So passed they on with even pace:
Yet gradually one might trace
A shadow growing on his face.

The Second Voice

THEY walked beside the wave-worn beach;
Her tongue was very apt to teach,
And now and then he did beseech

She would abate her dulcet tone,
Because the talk was all her own,
And he was dull as any drone.

She urged "No cheese is made of chalk":
And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,
Tuned to the footfall of a walk.

Her voice was very full and rich,
And, when at length she asked him "Which?"
It mounted to its highest pitch.

He a bewildered answer gave,
Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,
Lost in the echoes of the cave.

He answered her he knew not what:
Like shaft from bow at random shot,
He spoke, but she regarded not.

She waited not for his reply,
But with a downward leaden eye
Went on as if he were not by

Sound argument and grave defence,
Strange questions raised on "Why?" and "Whence?"
And wildly tangled evidence.

When he, with racked and whirling brain,
Feebly implored her to explain,
She simply said it all again.

Wrenched with an agony intense,
He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense,
And careless of all consequence:

"Mind - I believe - is Essence - Ent -
Abstract - that is - an Accident -
Which we - that is to say - I meant - "

When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed,
At length his speech was somewhat hushed,
She looked at him, and he was crushed.

It needed not her calm reply:
She fixed him with a stony eye,
And he could neither fight nor fly.

While she dissected, word by word,
His speech, half guessed at and half heard,
As might a cat a little bird.

Then, having wholly overthrown
His views, and stripped them to the bone,
Proceeded to unfold her own.

"Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss
Of other thoughts no thought but this,
Harmonious dews of sober bliss?

"What boots it? Shall his fevered eye
Through towering nothingness descry
The grisly phantom hurry by?

"And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air;
See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare
And redden in the dusky glare?

"The meadows breathing amber light,
The darkness toppling from the height,
The feathery train of granite Night?

"Shall he, grown gray among his peers,
Through the thick curtain of his tears
Catch glimpses of his earlier years,

"And hear the sounds he knew of yore,
Old shufflings on the sanded floor,
Old knuckles tapping at the door?

"Yet still before him as he flies
One pallid form shall ever rise,
And, bodying forth in glassy eyes

"The vision of a vanished good,
Low peering through the tangled wood,
Shall freeze the current of his blood."

Still from each fact, with skill uncouth
And savage rapture, like a tooth
She wrenched some slow reluctant truth.

Till, like a silent water-mill,
When summer suns have dried the rill,
She reached a full stop, and was still.

Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,
As when the loaded omnibus
Has reached the railway terminus:

When, for the tumult of the street,
Is heard the engine's stifled beat,
The velvet tread of porters' feet.

With glance that ever sought the ground,
She moved her lips without a sound,
And every now and then she frowned.

He gazed upon the sleeping sea,
And joyed in its tranquillity,
And in that silence dead, but she

To muse a little space did seem,
Then, like the echo of a dream,
Harked back upon her threadbare theme.

Still an attentive ear he lent
But could not fathom what she meant:
She was not deep, nor eloquent.

He marked the ripple on the sand:
The even swaying of her hand
Was all that he could understand.

He saw in dreams a drawing-room,
Where thirteen wretches sat in gloom,
Waiting - he thought he knew for whom:

He saw them drooping here and there,
Each feebly huddled on a chair,
In attitudes of blank despair:

Oysters were not more mute than they,
For all their brains were pumped away,
And they had nothing more to say -

Save one, who groaned "Three hours are gone!"
Who shrieked "We'll wait no longer, John!
Tell them to set the dinner on!"

The vision passed: the ghosts were fled:
He saw once more that woman dread:
He heard once more the words she said.

He left her, and he turned aside:
He sat and watched the coming tide
Across the shores so newly dried.

He wondered at the waters clear,
The breeze that whispered in his ear,
The billows heaving far and near,

And why he had so long preferred
To hang upon her every word:
"In truth," he said, "it was absurd."

The Third Voice

NOT long this transport held its place:
Within a little moment's space
Quick tears were raining down his face

His heart stood still, aghast with fear;
A wordless voice, nor far nor near,
He seemed to hear and not to hear.

"Tears kindle not the doubtful spark.
If so, why not? Of this remark
The bearings are profoundly dark."

"Her speech," he said, "hath caused this pain.
Easier I count it to explain
The jargon of the howling main,

"Or, stretched beside some babbling brook,
To con, with inexpressive look,
An unintelligible book."

Low spake the voice within his head,
In words imagined more than said,
Soundless as ghost's intended tread:

"If thou art duller than before,
Why quittedst thou the voice of lore?
Why not endure, expecting more?"

"Rather than that," he groaned aghast,
"I'd writhe in depths of cavern vast,
Some loathly vampire's rich repast."

"'Twere hard," it answered, "themes immense
To coop within the narrow fence
That rings THY scant intelligence."

"Not so," he urged, "nor once alone:
But there was something in her tone
That chilled me to the very bone.

"Her style was anything but clear,
And most unpleasantly severe;
Her epithets were very queer.

"And yet, so grand were her replies,
I could not choose but deem her wise;
I did not dare to criticise;

"Nor did I leave her, till she went
So deep in tangled argument
That all my powers of thought were spent."

A little whisper inly slid,
"Yet truth is truth: you know you did."
A little wink beneath the lid.

And, sickened with excess of dread,
Prone to the dust he bent his head,
And lay like one three-quarters dead

The whisper left him - like a breeze
Lost in the depths of leafy trees -
Left him by no means at his ease.

Once more he weltered in despair,
With hands, through denser-matted hair,
More tightly clenched than then they were.

When, bathed in Dawn of living red,
Majestic frowned the mountain head,
"Tell me my fault," was all he said.

When, at high Noon, the blazing sky
Scorched in his head each haggard eye,
Then keenest rose his weary cry.

And when at Eve the unpitying sun
Smiled grimly on the solemn fun,
"Alack," he sighed, "what HAVE I done?"

But saddest, darkest was the sight,
When the cold grasp of leaden Night
Dashed him to earth, and held him tight.

Tortured, unaided, and alone,
Thunders were silence to his groan,
Bagpipes sweet music to its tone:

"What? Ever thus, in dismal round,
Shall Pain and Mystery profound
Pursue me like a sleepless hound,

"With crimson-dashed and eager jaws,
Me, still in ignorance of the cause,
Unknowing what I broke of laws?"

The whisper to his ear did seem
Like echoed flow of silent stream,
Or shadow of forgotten dream,

The whisper trembling in the wind:
"Her fate with thine was intertwined,"
So spake it in his inner mind:

"Each orbed on each a baleful star:
Each proved the other's blight and bar:
Each unto each were best, most far:

"Yea, each to each was worse than foe:
Thou, a scared dullard, gibbering low,
AND SHE, AN AVALANCHE OF WOE!"

When I was young, I caught a moonbeam
in a jar.
And I caught the summer breeze, too,
and the smell of wildflowers,
and just the way the mourning dove sang
outside my window.

And the moonbeam glanced through the glass
in a thousand rays,
and the breeze swirled around
for a hundred days
and the dove’s notes trilled and echoed back
into themselves.

And I put them in a little drawer
and turned the key –
to keep them safe, you see.
But I kept them there for overlong,
the lids were tight, ******* on too strong,
and dust had settled over the tops.

And when again I pulled them out,
the moonbeam flickered, small and sick,
and not so quick, the summer breeze.
The flowers were a vague perfume of
summer, and the birdsong was a whisper,
nothing more.

Most carefully I unscrewed all the jars,
and shook the remnants out the window like
dead things.
But the new wind caught them and
carried them away on its wings,
ferried off to the grave of the uncatchable things.

Corpus Mortalis in the Greek, Hellenic, and Egyptian pantheons, in the vaults they were filled with marble by all the gangs that tried to find them, because it would soon be the longest night in the Aegean world, where it was propitious to indicate places where to spend the night because the Corpus mingled with the Souls of Trouvere in the Apennines, Ghosts of Shiraz from Jaffa, Almas Christi from Leros with the Gerakis, and finally the souls of the Necropolis of Helenikká to support all believing proselytes of the Hexagonal Birthright. They were attracted to the theorization of fragmented intelligence in every being that fears their own, without the opinion of those who leave them alone and hostages in their isolation, and of a corpus characterized by persuasion in the first objects of twilight, which only left distinguish the moons of the nails and not that of the firmament, the intelligence became lethargic and closed itself in its own object of ideology, of the individual and of the gods who administered everything without a Corpus Mortalis, rather they challenged three-quarters of the day, and three-quarters of their spiritual acuity, to resist the siege of space that disrupts the pause in the hour that excludes all gadgets, to counteract the detonated and not rescued exception of the challenge. The voices of the Moiras were tuned in with Circe, under Zefian's ordering principle, who was already delivering the ergonomic ****** of the fourth arrow, to leave it in the carelessness of Vernarth and Saint John already revived, encompassing and assuming three-quarters of the day they glossed to attract them the threshold that behaved in immovable demiurgic, where men stopped being men with intelligence, rather they dialogued about initiations of the cosmos, but without human centrism that acquires it for a dialogue of Timaeus, wherever they may be. the non-existent things, where he splatters her with nuances of science would bring serious stenches of his erudition. The saga was made of the Ekev of causality that explores from an understood cause already issued, but of the Samaritan philanthropist who shone more at this time, than anyone who closes his eyes so as not to open it after the eternal Aegean night. The philanthropic sense was sensitized with reason in the hands of Zefian, after delivering the Saetas knowing that his personality trilled from the Timaeus, not to disagree with it from a human conscience, but from bilocation of the Beit Hamikdash, attributing his conception with low resources of whoever restrains him by rationalizing, but is under the clinical resource of the one who is recovered from his stuttering and dyslalia.

The Argive constructor Tecton already came with his builders, while the Corpus Mortalis hit who or who would hammer from the plexus, or who or what would be the first network of his linear for the Vóreios de Zefian, adjusting to the beginning of a Corpus Mortalis when it began the constructive principle of the Argivo tecton. The arches were deconfigured in irrational measures, which with their sixth sense they could foresee from the trace of the Platonic Philebus, as he nodded with a refined tiresome bustle, but he appropriated it in presupposition, going to settle where everyone goes together to pick the berries of the field frank, next to the Mataki who was already putting an end and closing the Phaedo that was encircling, with the feverish organization of the trembling desire of the philosophical den, not determining to die like Corpus Mortalis in the breviaries of the ellipsis, where everything remains in nothingness or in the outcast of the one who treasures it with more contingents of memory, and of the same one who is reborn from the slags, having had an insight that remains empty in the cliffs, under the figure of a marked man who revives in the lightning bolts that enabled royal wisdom, while his Corpus Mortalis was leaving with his soul that was embracing vast fields of his thesis. Where what he removes when he pulses from the heart, he adds what the dying person adds, although it is not known where he is going, it will summarize his ontology more than a prison inhabitant who poses free on his profane neighbor from the rhetoric that manifests position in his trajectory who will remember him and will not locate him in the next scene of the challenge of a new life. The Phaedo is on the ex-Voto of him with two institutionalized powers, he will have to know who will dare to cure him of his sieges and his demons that resurrect him but not make him his captive. The spell already inaugurated that knowing or deciding in the nomenclatures of a Platonic Demiurge, who from all past life made it ulterior, but not processed from the Seventh Heaven, between both coincidences from an astral magistracy that will take him through the lawsuit of self-exorcism, wild for the greatest mountains that protect him when he wants to warn, that beyond them he will come umpteenth more monumental than themselves, but with his, Phaedo contained in his soul written and rewritten by him and by his Corpus Mortalis.

Each hour until we meet is as a bird
That wings from far his gradual way along
The rustling covert of my soul,—his song
Still loudlier trilled through leaves more deeply stirr’d:
But at the hour of meeting, a clear word
Is every note he sings, in Love’s own tongue;
Yet, Love, thou know’st the sweet strain wrong,
Through our contending kisses oft unheard.

What of that hour at last, when for her sake
No wing may fly to me nor song may flow;
When, wandering round my life unleaved, I
The bloodied feathers scattered in the brake,
And think how she, far from me, with like eyes
Sees through the untuneful bough the wingless skies?

The morning came without promise,
A heaviness weighing on my heart
As the minutes lengthened upon the bed.
Motivation lost, frustration returned
At full strength from the day before.
The sigh of seasons escaping my lips
As I resigned myself to the pillows.
But then a soft sound tickled my ear,
A gentle bedside mewing sort of trill…
And looking over saw the green globes
Of the patient and insistent feline
That shares the shelter of my home.
For a second, my woes forgot to linger
And the beginnings of a smile unwound
The stubborn knots inside my chest.
Then looking away, annoyed by the
Sweetness of the interruption,
I willingly returned to my brooding.
But the feline trilled again, stretching
His white-gloved paw to my face,
Tugging the pillowy bedcovers with
Such benign insistence as a parent.
Refusing the request I hid beneath the layers,
Shutting out Aurora and her chirping fellows.
But the feline trilled again and,
Abandoning my sheets, leapt upon the desk.
I listened as he shuffled about,
Sliding keys and cards and books around.
My voice called out in warning
And he paused in his task, waiting.
But when I continued to hide in bed
He started again, working fervently now.
Again I called a warning.
His response silence… and then…
A pile of books hit the carpeted floor.
My hand reached the pillow
And launched it at the good feline
Who watched as it sailed right past him.
He mewed again, and I returned
To the covers… pillow-less.
One more time he tugged at the sheets,
Before choosing another possession of mine.
A set of keys this time, then a cup of coins.
The annoyance increased until finally,
He chose the harshest persuasion of all.
Carefully, he crept along the tabletop
placing a delicate white paw on
Matching shutters, pushing lightly.
The sun! Oh the wonderful, wretched sun!
Light! Not even the covers can save me now.
At last I rise, flying at the troublesome cat
Whose swift, practiced feet escape me.
He speeds through to the far end of home,
And crouches near the hearth,
His eyes bright with amusement and victory.
I'm laughing now as he takes off again,
Me following his progress until I have him.
His sweet voice trills playfully as he rolls,
Exposing the wide, gray-speckled belly,
And I attack!
My hand descends, fingers like claws,
And a noise escapes my throat.
Fur and fingers mesh as I madly rub his belly,
As some would with a beloved canine,
Playfully chastising him for drawing me from bed.
He purrs as I laugh and take him in my arms,
Burying my face in the warm, soft fur.
We sit like that for a while before he squirms away
And leads me to his empty food bowl,
Eyes joyful and expectant now.
As the pellets hit ceramic, I find myself at ease.
Whatever lingering self-pity is now gone,
And as I leave for daily duties,
He's there by the door, awaiting the
Routine stroke of the fur on his head.
Then when I return to home, tired
and deflated from the day, he is there to greet me,
weaving about my legs and mewing sweetly.
And in the evening, when phone calls are done
And dinner has been had, he settles upon
My small lap… his mass solid, warm and reassuring
Easing me to sleep with his deep purring…
Until morning comes once more
And it starts all over again.

--To A. J.


A black and glassy float, opaque and still,
The loch, at furthest ebb supine in sleep,
Reversing, mirrored in its luminous deep
The calm grey skies; the solemn spurs of hill;
Heather, and corn, and wisps of loitering haze;
The wee white cots, black-hatted, plumed with smoke;
The braes beyond--and when the ripple awoke,
They wavered with the jarred and wavering glaze.
The air was hushed and dreamy.  Evermore
A noise of running water whispered near.
A straggling crow called high and thin.  A bird
Trilled from the birch-leaves.  Round the shingled shore,
Yellow with ****, there wandered, vague and clear,
Strange vowels, mysterious gutturals, idly heard.

The silence grows deafening,
and the stillness screams;
the darkness over powers me.
i look all around and i see mirrored walls.
and in them the eyes!
eyes that bore into mine seemed to accuse,
they seemed to resent being trapped in here;
along with the very ghost.
i whirl around and see another pair,
appraising the view and seemingly smug.
so terrible yet so beautiful,
and wondering when the show ended.
i close my eyes, my heart speeds up,
i turn slowly and find another image.
hungry and dangerous the eyes came nearer,
with every step going backwards,
the ravishing the ravenous eyes came closer.
till i could smell her breath on mine,
intoxicating, alluring and beckoning me,
till i could fight it no more.
i tried to turn my face and again,
she smiled and waved at me,
she trilled a little laugh;
at my terror stricken face.
the sound reverberated off the walls,
that were also mirrors.
"why are you scared" she looked at me,
"we are all a part of you,
we sleep with you and wake with you,
and eat with you and we watch you ****.
we are your nightmares revisited,
we are the unspoken dreams,
the tales untold, the songs unsung.
all your deeds good and bad,
come undone with us.
for we are your friends and family,
we are only, you."
she bared open her heart
and i saw that it was mine!
and i heard the songs of the requiem,
or was it only my scream?
trapped within my own mind,
with the inner spirit.
she tortured me and tormented me,
till i was no more.
but when i start to think of it,
was it all just a dream?
but then she comes at night to me
and then i see it was me.

Unpolished weathered wood plays on my palms,
I pull and reach and pull an even beat
Attending algae'd oars aqueous psalm
Altered by the tangled grass I meet,
in counterpoint  small waves percuss the prow
Accentuating the pause before I cull,
Mellifluous zephyrs bowing across my brow
Enhance the exposition of the gulls,
Above the hem of heaven's dress the bright
Cerulean bodice trilled with Cirrus lace
Beguiles regard, but maddeningly polite
She smooths her skirt across the score of space

Eclipsing a poet's want to read the ruse,
This lady only lingers to amuse.

Exhaustion overtakes her soul
She used to fight it and her demons
Yet lately she sees no reason, for life has taken toll
Sun shines so lovely and weather warmed so right
She found that smiles came and laughter trilled
Her heart fell and leapt slightly again
Yet his words still burned where they fell
Lonely and broken, she stands once again to face the world
The cruel world that stripped away her innocence and ***** her of pure joy
The world that held her up and dropped her, dropped her flat
Just as flat as her deflated lost heart
But yet, she fought on
And through this fight, she developed an unimagiable strength
Her smile still shone warm, her eyes always light
A new detemination urged her on
A new phase of her life
Yes life would be complete in his arms
Yet away from that protection is where she learned:
Life is cruel and painful but through the pain, beauty overtakes time and time again

1761

A train went through a burial gate,
A bird broke forth and sang,
And trilled, and quivered, and shook his throat
Till all the churchyard rang;

And then adjusted his little notes,
And bowed and sang again.
Doubtless, he thought it meet of him
To say good-by to men.

The kettle boiled, switched itself off.
He made tea, topped it with milk.
He had never felt calmer.
Today was the day.

He counted the strides to the station,
One less than usual.
The train was two minutes overdue.
A robin just above him piped and trilled its cascading song.

The train came into view, now it was level with the end of the platform.
This was the time.
Before he could see the driver's eyes.
He hesitated.  
The moment passed.

**** robin, **** ****** robin.

Do dogs dream in black and white?
A shame, an utter shame.
I flounder for a hold on this man, his broad shoulders that used to carry me so effortlessly lifted upon the throne of his smile, so much worthwhile.
When now all that I see are the heavy hanged heads of the love that was once so deep, once so deep.
Pained silence pushes me to tears barely contained when before I laughed.
This is it; Don’t… Be. Scared.
Do I dream in color?
The hold on this; like the grip of my prints on wisps of smoke that flee and disperse from my desperate fingers, forever chasing an image that once ran to me with open arms.
I was a queen once, you know.
I danced with grace across maple panels glossed with the sheen of a million diamonds, painting the path of the white stag that pranced with me upon my forest floors, parting particles of light as they float like precious snowflakes to meet the dead pine needles.
The violins and ivory keys trilled out in their glorious voices with the angels that watched me dance.
Elegant and beautiful and free; commanding all who would listen to smile.
Then one day the earth shook and took my forest floors away, my white stag dead where he lay, the crimson painted corpse of all I held dear.
They brought their guns on fearsome horseback, their steeds’ bright eyes ringed white with horror, coats aquiver, for their king lay silent, glass eyed, still.
The throne of his broad shoulders askew with the pain of something only he knows, limbs tied back, no gentleness to hold his head, no soft cradle for his head.
The king is dead.
The king is dead.

Colours in my eyes; like rain
as it drizzles, verses in vain;
Thoughts upon layering vines
of prosetry; a delightful hymn.

More than a picture; a metaphor:

A dismay of one's own fancy,
Prismatic one would say; vibrant-
ly laced strings trilled, on a fancy;
Whimsical: clinquantly fervent,

Or so one would say; gracing,
Painting cliques; of colours
of places upon themselves;
As a canvass wild wandering,

Upon the world in its charming flatter.

Unlike I, one bound deeply; enfettered
gladly in between dimly shades of two.

"A mixture of velvety crimson and deep royal violet."

I take a marble path to where we met
Underneath the ebony pressure and blowing mini lives
And think of every single thing
That ever chanced to grace your lips
And I walk and I walk and we walk to the bench
Where we aimed at those deaths
How they laughed at our kiss
Trilled down the fragrant spools
Of blurb stained cotton
You and me forever being
Good at bad ideas
Dark stories flying through the pane
Teasing me and never to be seen again
So take take take me to where we met
And where a single moment was greater than this
And even brighter than this
Swirled veins of redundant horrific prayers
Get me out of myself
to infinite
Yes darker than the 'byss
Please believe me
I never wanted this
And never could again
And here I am ready to jump
Into the magnificent song of yours
The gates creak for want of you.

11:12 on a Tuesday.
A moment when the wind stopped,
Buds popped,
Grass was chopped,
Bunnies hopped,
And my heart dropped.

11:12 on a Tuesday.
A moment when rivers spilled,
Snow was killed,
Birds trilled,
And my soul was filled.

11:12 on a Tuesday.
A moment when spring was delayed,
Children played,
Flowers swayed,
And whole, I was made.

She met him at a dance, when he glanced her way on a Friday night.
She was trilled that he approached her instead of the other gals.
He told her later it was her eyes that drew him in, he said," they sparkled liked
Diamonds."
He took her to meet his mom once, she pulled him aside and told him, She said that," she is from the wrong side of the tracks."
They continued to see each other at the dance and did not look back, Their love was a unique romance.
One day he took a chance and told her the news, He said " Sweetheart I hope this don't give you the blues; I have to go away to war, I don't know what is in store for us."
She said to him "trust me, my love is true, I will wait for you."
She also let him know; we could write letters and before you know it the war will end, He agreed.
The time arrived to say goodbye, He held her tight and gave her a farewell kiss. He told her he would never forget her Diamond eyes, and that the time spent with her was pure bliss. He also said, " Your my Angel in disguise."
They wrote back in forth for awhile. his letters always made her smile.
The last letter she wrote said," My love, I miss you, please take to heart the poem I wrote for you:
                                          Snow Angel
                           You are were it is warm, in that war torn land
                            If you could you could build castles in the sand
                            I am here where it is cold, I could build Angels in the snow
                            I am your Snow Angel, my love warms your heart
                            I loved you from the start, always remember,
                            I am your Snow Angel
She waited at the mailbox everyday, hoping for another letter from him;
but received nothing more, until one day shortly after the war ended.
She saw a man in uniform heading her way, she rushed toward him.
When she got closer she realized it was not her Love, The man had a
letter in his hand, He said" I am so sorry, he got wounded in battle and we lost him.
He Said, with tears in his eyes," He died while saving my life"
He was a Hero.
He once, made me promise that if something happened to
him, I would deliver back to you, your last letter.
She took the letter and looked at the words written on the back of the envelope, You are my Snow Angel and in life or death, you will forever be in my heart.

I couldn't help but smile
when a bird outside our kitchen
trilled, "Whew, whew, whew!"
Then it switched to "Wee-oop,
wee-oop, wee-oop!"

"Listen to that!" I cried aloud,
as Kim kept chopping her kale.
I went to the screen for a ****
while the bird continued.

The singing abruptly stopped,
and so did I.
I put away my pipe
and started a gluten-free diet.
I cancelled our subscription
to the New York Times,
and filed for divorce.

This was no surprise to Kim.
"You were always an *******,"
she said. "Same as that
******* bird."

On a night, dark and dreary,
I mused, wearily.
Whatever was I to do
With it watching me?

Wings as black as night,
Ink dripping, feathers like knives.
It has eyes like stars
In a somber, summer sky.

It turned its head and trilled,
Exactly 13 times.
Each note an alarm of distress
Inside my plagued mind.

It was here for me.
It shuffled its black feathers
And unfurled its dark wings,
Showing nothing but a heart.

This heart, my life, my ever-
Changing tune. This song
Began lively, crescendoing.
Ending with a thump.

I watched it falter.
I stared at it and counted.
I got to thirteen,
And then I watched as it stopped.