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 … Continue reading "On 11th Street"
[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 … Continue reading "Bote"
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
You say the truth is what you need To set your life on solid ground, But ‘satisfaction guaranteed’ While easy said, is seldom found, For candor is a poisoned sword, And honesty it’s own reward; So better now some truth to lack Than hurts that can’t be taken back
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 … Continue reading "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
we watched the sunset red and wise and tasted of the malbec cup, until the stars were on our eyes and spirits down were taken up we knew the wind and shore were ours: the secret hills, the sudden flow’rs, like drifting boats in hidden slips the taste of malbec on our lips