Le soleil brille, la mere est calme et plat, c’est un jour claire et brillant Dans le ciel des nuages flottaient comme des cheveaux en courant.
Les bateaux de peche ascende et descende gentillement
Des cries entendus des oiseax, les fleurs qui fleurissent,
Les ballades, insensibles des insectes chantaient
Et moi, humaine, inondee par des pensees.
It’s funny when
Your face seems
As as cold and as craggy as a Cobo rock
In this age it would seem
Poverty is an illness
The poor with their insanity, stupidity, inanity When all their life has been a cage.
In the depths of Winter’s snowy haze
I have seen icicles spangle encrusted faces
Diamond like; and across the sheet-white places a lost trumpet call,
See the rich nobs at the charity ‘do’
They only go ‘cos they want to be cool
Paying all that money for a charity affair
Only poor people know how to share
I am a serious poet, and also a serious headcase
Some days now I seldom show it, but once I was hit with mace!
Yes I want it, yes I need it, I bleed regret but can
We heard it on the Beeb, it was no freebie
This news so sad, that the mother of our monarch
Was deceased. She went in her sleep, for,
She’d had a good life.
Witch me a herb, which herb is which?
Whether grown in a greenhouse, or in a ditch
Toxins that repel, ward off, or give grace
These herbs are all banes, where they leave a trace
ELECTRIC ARCHING CRISS-CROSS, MAUVE AZURE AND BLUE
A RIPPLING CORUSCATING COLLAGE OF COLOURS DANCING IN THE SEA-SAND-SCAPE
SUN DIPPED BELOW TUMESCENT KOHL-RIMMED HORIZON