All my words will not explain

The convenience of death near a dream

And much is being said again and again

But the game has not been laid to rest

Sports commentators words stumble over words

The complexity of which cause analysis to emerge as a jest
On his way out he saw the sympathy in my eyes

And I listened to an old man explain his pain

My “Hablo muy Poco Espanol, Senor”

Found no understanding in his “triste”

The loss was his cross to bear

His nationality took a hit that was hard to take
The loss.

His dreams are not forgotten.

There is more, always more

A ball is stronger than fields with many doors

Where exists lead to brighter fields

Where keys are never lost but buried

In sands of silica that turn to glass only to be found again

All of it under the mercy of an Argentine sun

Why an apple

Why not a pear
Did you know? 

Apples genuflect

At all fourteen stations

Of the cross

Not in memory of St Augustine.

No.

Who, as beggar

Tasted a pear

Who ate and ate

And swallowed

With greed 

After his lady

Left the room

A pause without windows

A bed covered 

With the memory

Of her cleavage.

This was of course 

Before his conversion.
After
Adam gave Eve

An apple
After
The black lady gave Augustine

A pear
I think of the apple

As his body’s navel

The end connected by stem
I think of the pear

As her body’s nipples

The ends connected by stems.

The pear was born

Long before the first

Apple seed ever blossomed
With softer skin

With softer colours

Whose fruit, her fruit

I’ve held in my palm
I spell words

I chew on,

Then spit

Out ideas

So as not

To choke on

The ignorance 

Of the power of myth If you please
Memory as habit

Apple as thorn
Pear as pleasure

St Augustine did scorn
No?
He was abandoned by the mistrust 

Of shapely worship - 

She left his bed

Never to return.

He chose the apple

As call to prayer

And then as now

What was hunger,

Is now its golden cow, forever?
It’s never too late

To bite into a pear

As acts of contrition

As legends of thought

Explore what others debate

Knowing the vanity of sin

Knocks on my gate.

Rarely in the morning

Often when it’s late.


Between the here of now and then

The ‘as it was’, as ‘is our past’

St Augustine the sinner

Like me, must wait

As novelty defines

Those hidden lines

That taste describes

As juice runs down

My chin

As juice betrays

My thoughts within
The ambition in my fingers 

The lust of thoughts still lost.

To touch your skin as beggars do

To others

Must wait.



Hello S.G

I am one day late – this should have been given to you yesterday – my apologies.

Garden walls I did not plant, please

Grant me the wisdom to see the beguiled

Fleeing colors of seeds that did not germinate
Let me cultivate my private estate as

The sparrow’s company of laughter is

Unable to scratch this surface
Syncopated strut, nervous heritage

Prone to an absence of reason’s lamentable sadness of

The innocence of parade ground bravado
And when they came back

Some grafts did not take

Forsaken by God’s blind ambition of loneliness
Why do I weep for this kingdom of silence

Is it a neighborly friendship that was to be

Never given the chance to bear fruit
For what are colors if not all of us are to cheer

The poppy’s determination

To offer sanctuary free of admission
Weary we pilgrims are

Foot soldiers who want to fly, yet are

Grounded by our all too brief attention span
Widow makers fail to quench our insatiable thirst

Beyond the carousel of Royal Dalton sentinels, transfixed

There are blossoms amongst the cactus thorns of submission
Driven as I am, astute observer

Chaperoned by the vanity of vague memories

Their loss of blood, the poppy grieves
Time waddles on, unyielding remittance man

I am distracted by the dye of anguish

As I peel back the onion’s crown of sorrow and forgiveness
Which of our senses are the first to leave us, the last to fade

Crimson hybrid rose, what a stranger you are

Oh my, when did the free masons of imagination ever kiss us good bye

I left an angry woman

Who was stopped, by

 An unkind sentence

A loosely worded

Flippant reply, that

Cut very deep and

Later on made her angrier
With my wordsI crushed a spirit

Made delicate by her honesty

Made vulnerable by my ignorance
Apologies are not enough

To take back

A woman’s hurt 

She may not

Be able to let go.

The pain from words

Whose meanings

Are kept as storage

In an earthen floor room

Where sentences are served

Until she unlocks the door
Am I to speak no more?

Or tuck my tail,

Wipe my feet, then

Not walk on floors
No – maybe yes – maybe never
One thing I have learned

And what I’ve learned is never enough

I will choose my words before I speak

I will try to imagine

What a freshly painted wall

Will look like

After the faded colour has dried

Lesser more wisely said 

Is better for what

Is yet to be read
“I don’t know”

Is not a defence

Not knowing is the Cardinal’s sin

Found in a dimension

Where time stands still for the guilty

And holy water is given its moment

As are my struggles,

That look backwards and then, genuflects against its very own will.

This morning’s cold embrace

Was introduced by late night conversations

As icicles on strings bend to interrupt

The disconnect of words.

They are as common as a territorial army on parade

Drummers as carpetbaggers

 Written in the style of whispers.

The innuendos of stray, then lost meanings are 

Shaped by toothless winds without appetite

Then in the forecast of an apology,

They bite into my skin

In their defence I chew on words

To big to swallow, I spit them out

And watch them float on the dark briny surface

Of a sea called ‘Misconception’

As is my habit, I choke on exclamation marks

Only to swallow the dot, while hanging onto

The end of a straight stem shaped proclamation

Byte

And then ingest it all as “Certificates of Mistrust”

Oh, this is not over

Then as reminders, I burp and exhale

What was never meant to be swallowed,

What was never meant to be chewed,

What was never meant to be bitten,

What was never meant to be held in my hands, 

What was never meant to be picked. 

By the random recognition of a lovely facial expression

Meanings are to be left hanging, before it all falls to the ground.

I lay beside you

I watched you sleep

It was your breathing

That touched my cold shoulder.
The proximity of vagueness

Outlined by the hint of aftertaste

A wine tasters white cane

I will not need in your dark
Breathing gives life and

Adds meaning to possession

Of the first, of the longer lasting

As entrance confounds the meaning of exit
Now as it is of later

Encounters are wrapped

In the warmth of fidelity

As first assumptions turn into expectations 
As I remember, your breathing

I recall the first time that we danced

I watched with the most peculiar of attention

The sway of your hemline tying knots in my lust full thoughts
Nor do I tire of watching

The variations of a theme – With thoughts dressed to the nines

In the play land of your breathing’s dream
Breathe in, breathe out

What makes me smile is not the doubt

Of finding out what’s left to discover

What makes me smile is that sooner or later
I’ll look at your face – whether in your bed, or

Arm in arm under your umbrella, to find out

The intimacy of cool heads breathing

Watching for the passing by of life’s meaning aboveor under the linen sky’s cover

 

Humming sounds, all of my life

Not a distraction

But an unwavering reminder

Of the language of the planet

Understood by bees

And those connected by

The electricity of a moving multiple timbre.
Lightning rods of conversation

 Excitable by the touch and amplitude

Of ‘listen to this’ of ‘have you heard’

As women roar to the moon with

The first hurrahs of giving birth

To the children of joy as the sprouting of seed

Shouts in the staccato of rhythm and rhyme of life.
It’s not a ringing in the ears, still

It does create echoes amplified

By the drumming and chanting

Of someone else’s accomplishment,

Not of Mr. Einstein, Herbert Hoover, or

The children of Mother Theresa, bless her house

But of someone, of something, that lies just beneath the surface of sympathy.
There is a mathematical ignorance of notes spread on a sheet

Of  scoring the ups and downs of moods

Layered between cycles of distraction and creation

Cleff  to the right, clavier to the left

Leave it said undone, instead swing to, swing to…….

It is my own ignorance that suffers under cycles of distraction

Compositions and composting, birth and death, scatting and chatting.

I like to think 

The cool arbitrage

Of words

Is wrapped in

The lip gloss

Of your late

Late night proposals
I could not

Deny the possibility

Of rejections

But then you don’t 

Give up easily
Still there is…….

This cool satisfaction

Of having at least tried

In the silence of a 

Tongue’s probing

As to whether salt

Could ever turn

Into a column of sugar
This will pass?

(Moses took more than second looks at the promised land)

And I ask, who

Has the last word when it is 

Written in the form of an apology

Do without and protect

What is eventually swallowed

I hear it again ………Do without and close the door

To the rooms of my thoughts.
I cannot hear those words, again

But I look at the gloss of your lips

I have this, this naked approach

But am held in check

By the warring  ‘ no, no’ of your finger.
All leads to the downplay  of my

Extraordinary  urge towards mischief.

Hello again, must I remind myself

My skin would never listen to the

Contrite commands of you objection
Stuck now are these memories

In the polarity of incompatible charges

Black widows wrapped in the black of red

Bright star of drowsy bites, and echoes

Of a throaty warble that never wants to, but always does belong.    

No two kisses are ever the same

There are no odds given 

When true love plays with two selves

As a never ending, lifelong game
When I plant my kisser

On the lips of my best friend’s kisser

Somewhere inside of me

There is a bell that rings with a loud ‘bong’

I am not wrong of this I am quite certain

That the two of us are very proud

When applause is given

By the approval of an observant, cheering crowd
Our lips are the lips of choice

That connect when they touch  

Sometimes quietly, sometime quite loud

It’s like the North pole touching the South
Or 
The East meeting the West
Or
The black and white, tripping

Over the Ying and the Yang
Or
Two units celebrating the sensitivity of one mouth

When our lips meet under the Umbrella of Joy

The pinks and the blues dissolveInto a puddle of mush.

Then eyes open with a twinkle

As checks rage with desire in the state of a blush 
Somewhere in the mystery of memory

There sits on a branch a bird called “Thrush”

Who sings with abandon with notes not at random

To his lady of love, the one he calls “my morning dove”