rumpled jeans outlandish jersey
tussled hair grass stained hi tops
rolled up pant legs
a study in concentration
serious business
the lawnmower whirrrs
a Fisher Price song
in random fashion
over newmown grass
green stained shoes
testimony to his calling
helping dad cut the lawn

A street in Warsaw
Rush hour walkers
Moving with purpose
Unheeding, uncaring
Of those who are the street scene.

A father, a son, a flimsy table.
Portable. folding legs
Street vendors.
Millimetres from mindless pedestrian flow.
Large long impossibly delicate vases for sale
Too many for the table top
Pregnant with the potential
of shattering finality
Worthless shards on the walk below.

Tasseled red lacquered chandeliers
Delicate muraled rice wallpaper
With quotes from Li Po
soft oriental carpets
Black minimalist chairs and tables
Subtly discordant Zhong-Hu melody
Steaming Lo Mein

Overstuffed nose ringed
Bleached blonde waitress
Stainless steel utensils

A soft almost indigo light
Pervades the garden
Casting oddly velvet shadows
From trees and plants on
The moss framed cobble stones
That meander round corners
In sweeping bends
To accommodate the ferns
And hosta

Moisture pervades and adds
the scent of composting generations
Wetting the cobbles
Dripping from leaves

Ancient trees canopy and
Old damp stone walls
Protect this oasis from the
Roaring traffic just meters away

I would kiss you as stars touch light to light
as waves share a soft drench night
as snows touch pine boughs
as night winds touch long grass
as twilight sounds touch a whisper
as you touch me.... fleetingly
as my lips touch yours in shadows

"For they that carried us away captive required of us a song and they that wasted

us required of us mirth,saying sing us one of the songs of Zion"
Psalm 137:3 (KJV)

We kiss the sole of history
and sing an ode to the cast-iron "no return""conduit
as we bethink junctures of old -

The hand of despotism decreed;
lives were to be crushed,here in the dungeon
Our own betrayed us with a Judas kiss
and handed us over to the canines of the masters

I can`t believe you`re gone
I can`t believe you died that day
I can`t believe there is no us
I can`t believe your wondrous eyes
Were martyred to an unknown cause
You; mixed with steel and dust
For all the world to see
You; crushed
Your spirit flung
So unprepared
In screaming shock
At such sudden unplanned exit

her faded floral dress
clung to a gaunt and sinewed frame
as the wind molded it
to a hard edged body
no fat no curves
just age and hardship
molded angularity
arms outstretched
holding wet flannel shirts
A mouth full of clothes pins
Coaxing heavy material
on to the swaying line.
his clothes...washed every second day
Iron gray hair blowing
across her chiselled face
her eyes china blue
in laughing counterpoint
to the drab garments around her
she stood out on the hill

Filling me up until my hands shake on the ends of these thin arms.
Wrap themselves around the body they belong to
in a slow coil like thievery
and untold stories full with sin.

The bones, they bend
so hand over shoulder
ghost white skin
lay on top and weave under;
these bones with a place for my forehead to rest,
these lips mutter prayers as they lean into nest.

You are the scarecrow
that watches over the barren fields
That land
that feeds her children with thorns ;

a keeper of ducks
that never return home

You are the breath
that the old sun despises
She slaps you
With a tyrannical stare
of fate

You are the pica
that the terrestrial vulture
craves for
with a cunning tongue
at dawn

You are whom
antediluvian's bewitched face
dance to
with cheetah's feet