Distance

Will distance kill the flame
That flickered from pole to pole
And came to wax at home
Where it found a brighter light?

Can time delete the thought
That warmed to tender touch
And grew from great respect
To where it reached the skies?

Did hearts as deep as ours
Diffuse in world or realm
And flutter everyday
To create new shades of love?

Would being at your side, my Love
Would it make you fonder still
Or would my good guess still be good
That you’ll be always mine, anyway?

The Artist

A free flick of cunning hand
Cuts out the fullness of her heart
Each colour shows a crazy strand
Her every leap in the dark is art

The theme and texture flow forever
Her soulwater is a satyr’s spring
Her view of life is soft and clever
Each child of her hand is a graceful thing

She lives her art in gown and gait
A bold and elegant way of mind
The gallery glows in her beauteous bait
The artist is a wondrous kind.

[From the collection 'Mindfall']

The Lease of Life

Whatever happens
We're all here on a lease
And we'll all be evicted
In a year or two or seventy

Salsa Scandalous

Salsa is wonderful to watch! Guapea, Pa’l Medio, Sombrero, Gancho; one hundred salacious steps, sudden flicks, fluid twirls, swirling skirts, camaminos, dame son sopresa, soporific suenas, salsa is frolicsome! An unconscious hand (do you believe that?) strays smoothly over the sweat-scape of another’s body all the time.

Some call it a wicked workout – physical and mental. Surely, the only one you go to all dressed up. Permanent partners (a bit like marriage, really) dancing breath-close to you. Smelling your hair, slipping their ubiquitous arm round the small of your back (just the way I like to do).

If my girl suddenly turned to Salsa, the choices would be bright-red crystal. One, I go along. Two, she walks away from it. Three, I walk away from everything! And, still, Salsa really is sweet with maddening manoeuvres, crazy kinetics!

Missing Lil Girl in the Rain

The rain lashes the street
And fills up my shoes
Happiness crashes through my heart
And longing loads my soul

Head of Shame

At what fine point in God’s priceless time should a woman gallantly recognise that she’s hauling a hideous hairstyle on her head? Should she sit tight for public ridicule to come bruising her, or for a squirrel’s attempt to make a home on top of her head? Or should she notice before she heels out of the bungling stylist’s studio?

Office-Holders, Office-Seekers, You are Frigid!

Mephistophelian men and women, sweeping across the nation, making moonshine promises, and claiming worthless achievement. While you go back home in extravagant motorcades, led by suicidal dispatch riders, please spare an unusual thought (I know the thought or compassion must be mighty painful for you), but spare an unusual thought, all the same, for I who sat in the stiff traffic, and went nowhere at all for three long-ass hours. You are all much of a muchness, anyway. We’d like to see you all do a moonie on stage, instead – it means more than what you say. Shame! Shame! Shame!