She loves me,
she loves me not;
she loves me,
she loves me...
how can she not?
In our bed she's loved me
when I've given all I could.
She's loved our house,
our cars, my yacht,
and all the things
I've got.
But I am old and
and she is young,
and I am rich,
and she will be
if, not loving me,
she takes me
to the cleaners.
Friday, December 30, 2011
STRAWBERRIES
The strawberries seduced me to a surfeit
when we picked them in that field,
and lifting a laden stem I'd find them
clustered beneath its leaves;
hiding while they ripened;
ripenning to perfection.
Red and shiny tight and
luscious, whispering
seductively to lips,
and teeth and tongue,
with a husky invitation
to enjoy their
soft, sweet,
succulence.
Those strawberries seduced me to a surfeit,
and my memories of that summer
are filled with their delights.
when we picked them in that field,
and lifting a laden stem I'd find them
clustered beneath its leaves;
hiding while they ripened;
ripenning to perfection.
Red and shiny tight and
luscious, whispering
seductively to lips,
and teeth and tongue,
with a husky invitation
to enjoy their
soft, sweet,
succulence.
Those strawberries seduced me to a surfeit,
and my memories of that summer
are filled with their delights.
GIRL ON THE STREET
What happened to her,
the girl in the doorway,
her right hand held out,
cupped, and you can see
the ingrained grime
and dirty finger nails;
and when last did
she wash her hair
or have a bath, or
clean anything at all?
When last did she sleep
in a bed or lay her head
on a pillow that didn't stink?
And can she recall
eating at a table
with clean crockery,
and no one swearing,
and food not crushed
into the floor, gone black,
and the reek from
a corner
of urine?
Was she beaten by her dad,
and made to drop her pants
so he could feel, and
if she breathed a word
he'll kill her?
Was she betrayed
by everyone in her life
who should have made
her feel secure, and wanted;
who should have shown her
tenderness and love?
Or did this girl throw her life away
on a whim, for a dare, or
because her boyfriend was throwing
his away and wanted company
on the road he'd taken
to self-destructiion?
I pass her by,
insultating myself
from her failure;
but momentarily
made guilty by it
because I ought to care,
but don't.
the girl in the doorway,
her right hand held out,
cupped, and you can see
the ingrained grime
and dirty finger nails;
and when last did
she wash her hair
or have a bath, or
clean anything at all?
When last did she sleep
in a bed or lay her head
on a pillow that didn't stink?
And can she recall
eating at a table
with clean crockery,
and no one swearing,
and food not crushed
into the floor, gone black,
and the reek from
a corner
of urine?
Was she beaten by her dad,
and made to drop her pants
so he could feel, and
if she breathed a word
he'll kill her?
Was she betrayed
by everyone in her life
who should have made
her feel secure, and wanted;
who should have shown her
tenderness and love?
Or did this girl throw her life away
on a whim, for a dare, or
because her boyfriend was throwing
his away and wanted company
on the road he'd taken
to self-destructiion?
I pass her by,
insultating myself
from her failure;
but momentarily
made guilty by it
because I ought to care,
but don't.
RELUCTANT EXPLORATION
Am I "me" because it was me
that determined
the "me" I wanted to be?
Or am I "me" because of what
others did to me?
Am I "me" because of all the genes given to me
by generations of ancestors who preceeded me?
Why am I "me"?
And who is "me"?
If finding out the real "me"
means having a gun pointed at me
and told its that stranger or me,
or that lady or me,
or that kid or me,
or it means hanging off a mountain
with a dead companion below me
and another one above me
and my hand dead with frost bite
and no prospect of anyone rescuing me
for another 12 hours,
or will I jump into the sea
and save that dog?
then I'd rather be
full of uncertainty
and leave the exploration of me
to someone else other than to me.
that determined
the "me" I wanted to be?
Or am I "me" because of what
others did to me?
Am I "me" because of all the genes given to me
by generations of ancestors who preceeded me?
Why am I "me"?
And who is "me"?
If finding out the real "me"
means having a gun pointed at me
and told its that stranger or me,
or that lady or me,
or that kid or me,
or it means hanging off a mountain
with a dead companion below me
and another one above me
and my hand dead with frost bite
and no prospect of anyone rescuing me
for another 12 hours,
or will I jump into the sea
and save that dog?
then I'd rather be
full of uncertainty
and leave the exploration of me
to someone else other than to me.
AND DID ANYBODY MOURN
Over the hill from Boulogne-sur-Mer, beside a crumbling cliff, there lived a man alone with his dogs in a relic of the War; a sunken concrete courtyard with subterranean sleeping quarters for those who manned the Germans guns along this northern shore.
We walked along the path atop the ragged edge, and those barking dogs unnerved us, as did the sense we got of pervasive lawlessness.
How came this habitation, so irregular, so remote?
What bureaucrat allowed it, ignoring all the rules?
And did he pay to live there, or had he just arrived, a homeless war-time veteran whom no one turned away?
A storm brought down a slice of cliff, and the footpath’s course was changed, and now where it passed that place nothing could be seen but a clump of hostile brambles; an entanglement of thorns.
But the dogs heard us, and we heard them
give vent to pent-up fury at all who dared come near.
One day we met their owner with provisions in a handcart he’d pulled across a field, the shops two miles away.
Though unkempt his appearance, he was courteous and engaging. Polite and erudite; a gentleman indeed who chose, for reasons of his own, to live in this spot - no power, no running water - his companions day and night, through summer’s heat and winter’s cold, and whipping gales and lashing rain, two fearsomely loyal dogs.
Later on we heard them, their tone toned down - or was it just our fancy they seemed less angry than forlorn?
Today we passed again that way, along the cliff-top path, and when we neared the bunker house all we heard were distant gulls and the sounds of rustling grass.
Curious and concerned, we ventured through the thorny scrub along a narrow path, and saw the devastation where that man had lived.
Abandoned, his belongings were strewn all around, picked over by a horde, it seemed, of those with plunder in their minds.
Vultures descended on a corpse, and all they’ve left’s a wreck.
It was a tip, that man’s redoubt, the concrete walls around. And along their tops bright flowers bloomed,
Not knowing he was gone.
We walked along the path atop the ragged edge, and those barking dogs unnerved us, as did the sense we got of pervasive lawlessness.
How came this habitation, so irregular, so remote?
What bureaucrat allowed it, ignoring all the rules?
And did he pay to live there, or had he just arrived, a homeless war-time veteran whom no one turned away?
A storm brought down a slice of cliff, and the footpath’s course was changed, and now where it passed that place nothing could be seen but a clump of hostile brambles; an entanglement of thorns.
But the dogs heard us, and we heard them
give vent to pent-up fury at all who dared come near.
One day we met their owner with provisions in a handcart he’d pulled across a field, the shops two miles away.
Though unkempt his appearance, he was courteous and engaging. Polite and erudite; a gentleman indeed who chose, for reasons of his own, to live in this spot - no power, no running water - his companions day and night, through summer’s heat and winter’s cold, and whipping gales and lashing rain, two fearsomely loyal dogs.
Later on we heard them, their tone toned down - or was it just our fancy they seemed less angry than forlorn?
Today we passed again that way, along the cliff-top path, and when we neared the bunker house all we heard were distant gulls and the sounds of rustling grass.
Curious and concerned, we ventured through the thorny scrub along a narrow path, and saw the devastation where that man had lived.
Abandoned, his belongings were strewn all around, picked over by a horde, it seemed, of those with plunder in their minds.
Vultures descended on a corpse, and all they’ve left’s a wreck.
It was a tip, that man’s redoubt, the concrete walls around. And along their tops bright flowers bloomed,
Not knowing he was gone.
THE VISITOR
I hear his footstep on the stair
and when I look I see him there
standing by my bed.
Silently he's crying now,
and his tears are blood.
He holds his head in his hands
and lifts it from his neck
and through his lips
a viper's tongue flicks
to taste the air,
and from his eyes
javelins fly
and stick me to my bed.
I wish I knew who he was.
I wish I knew what words to say
to make him stay away.
and when I look I see him there
standing by my bed.
Silently he's crying now,
and his tears are blood.
He holds his head in his hands
and lifts it from his neck
and through his lips
a viper's tongue flicks
to taste the air,
and from his eyes
javelins fly
and stick me to my bed.
I wish I knew who he was.
I wish I knew what words to say
to make him stay away.
WHERE?
Where did the light go?
what happened to the sun?
I looked at where the sun
should be and there I saw a hole.
And in the dark I groped and found
nothing I could hold.
I'm lying down, in case I fall -
prostrate on the ground -
waiting here,
alone and lost -
silence all around.
what happened to the sun?
I looked at where the sun
should be and there I saw a hole.
And in the dark I groped and found
nothing I could hold.
I'm lying down, in case I fall -
prostrate on the ground -
waiting here,
alone and lost -
silence all around.
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