pear blossoms composing
lines in my mind that the wind
blows in, fading to leave me
with my own uninspired lines
I’m not moving to a place in
Palm Bay or from Palm Bay so
don’t miss me today or any day
I’m just a poor boy
and my story’s often mist old
To fly as a gull his desire
To walk as a child his aspire
Hands to shovel sand
Wings to currents ascend
And it was so
O’er many a Bonnie field I wandered
O Jeanne our thrissles flourish’d fresh and fair
And bonie bloom’d our roses;
But auld lang came like a
frost in June,
An wither’d a’ our posies.
A grand St Patrick’s day from Bouquet Boy
They are the worst moments
These mid-March mornings
Musing morbidly cursing my
Taming longing again for the
old purple shades of sin
Flesh wars raging in the warm
Golden morning light
The crow diving over the
Calm red-shoulder hawk
Making a metaphor for me
Sitting atop that pine
While Cat Stevens I guess
Will forever chime
Oh baby it's a wild world.
The morning lights
whiteness that has touched the world
perfectly as air.
In the whitened country
Wendell Berry
Ah, today can we not stop and dream
Of a grand land of emerald green
Where yon lads chase the tide
And lassies the blush they hide
The ole home a welcome scene
The thistle but a flowering thing
Ah today, upon your green I rest
Oh Aiden, land of all the fairest
I sought to make a list
of all the lips I most missed
who left without e’en a kiss
but oh, how long the list.
Her heathy moors and winding vales;
The scenes where wretched Fancy roves,
Pursuing past unhappy loves!
Farewell my friends! farewell my foes!
My peace with these, my love with those-
The bursting tears my heart declare,
Farewell, my bonie banks of Ayr.
The gloomy night is gathering fast
Robert Burns
Johnclarestokes
Who recalls before the days of PC, the story of Little Black Sambo, how the four tigers took Sambo’s clothes and ran around the tree, claiming they were the prettiest, until they turned to ghee, or butter, of which Sambo’s mom made pancakes?
I loved that story!
Photo composite
