Around the way, out on his lawn,
Precision the result of sweat;
In bright mid-day, or maybe dawn,
A laborer in silhouette —
But years will go – and came a day
He had to go around the way,
And now, his lawn, to one like me,
Is overgrown with memory
So much in every corner shop
The lights, the horns, the signs, the smells
There really isn’t time to stop
The once-shy heart within her swells
She’s got no time for fear, or fake
This is the trip she had to make
To make a woman out of shards
And live outside a house
Of cards
[Note: the word is pronounced “boat”. – Owen]
The true bote of our guilt and shame,
The expiation of our hate,
To own the truth and take the blame,
And not to self-exonerate
These medieval virtues seem
And ancient wisp or fading dream:
For now, all innocence is bought,
And our one sin is getting caught
Picture credit : Yung Chao Chen
a line of wonder in the grass,
a heartbeat in a world of stone;
a different lesson, school, and class,
an octave and a semitone —
the filtered true, the vivid false,
the dirge that leads us to the waltz,
with music ringing in the air,
and lines of wonder everywhere
There is a mist upon the lea,
There is a journey far to make —
There’s one for you, and one for me,
And many diff’rent paths to take
And more: a way that has no trail,
And of it, we must have avail,
To find out what it means to be
Amid the mist upon the lea
A classic car that takes me back
To times, indeed, ere I was born;
With gleaming chrome and tires black
By beaches on a summer’s morn —
A world from movies only known,
That probably is overblown
Within a mind that pictures bliss
In salad days with rides like this
Past Paris, out near Claye-Souilly,
Beside a small and blue canal,
She had me stop so we could see;
Such was, I think, her rationale —
We then we went to a hotel bar
And drank our fill of Pinot noir,
And laughed and sang and swayed and played,
Past Paris, where mistakes
Get made
The night in showers come to war,
The flags of passion everywhere;
Beneath the lights of give-us-more,
The savage battle raged unfair
The pounding drums the whole earth shook,
With this field lost, and that hill took,
And every last report, a lie,
For what do soldiers do
But die
