A GENTLE DYING:

There lingers upon this day, a tender and gentle dying,

Within soft voices of bees, last farewell in their sighing,

Sad adieu of feathered friends, off and away go flying,

Roses upon their stems, even they have given up trying.

Boughs releasing gold leaves, from weary autumnal trees,

Sepia petals, so creased and aged, drift upon silvery breeze,

Icy lips, kiss with abandon, cold green rivers and shivery seas,

Thick white fur replaces grey, so old wolves no longer freeze.

There´s a gentle dying upon the air, kind, compassionate, soft,

Whispering winds lift hats on high, before they may be doffed,

Everything swirls and softly sways and into distant futures waft,

And autumn´s gentle dying, now carries summer´s cadaver aloft.

ECHOINGS:

The constant buzzing, is the language in the silence of the loud,

It´s all around me, in me, in the earth & the high floating cloud,

The rhythm of my heartbeat, is heartbeat of Africa´s old drum,

It is where I feel within my blood, it’s far, beating & droning, hum.

It´s old voices of the ancients, that I hark upon the distant breeze,

It´s the whispers of the ancestors, telling lost secrets in the leaves,

And I can hear the thundered ire, from the angered tongue of Thor,

And within the savannahs of my mind, the mighty beasts do roar.

The cascades of wide rivers, fierce oceans & the calm tropical seas,

The screeching of old seed pods, released from tired autumn trees,

Resounding of the hooves, thundering over deserts & iced tundras,

The hot passionate lustings, where dust bowls meets the thunders.

Listen to the falling raindrops, gentle tears of Spanish lost alondras,

The tip-toeing footsteps of soft blue shadows & dewy grey sombras,

Blood of the Celts, running in ruby streams, of my now ageing veins,

Plaintive cries of bison, running through dry prairies & golden plains.

Old eyes now may fail me; my sight has gone with the coming of age,

But it is the resounding of the echoings, that makes me now the sage,

It´s in the dropping of seedlings & scatterlings, into earth´s waiting bowl,

That I hear all life pulsating & all its echoes are ancient within my soul.

KATY´S “NO”:

Our Katy was a good girl, dulcet, sweet & mild,

Everyone would say, “What a very good child”,

Katy was a young lady, demure, so coy & pretty,

Men would take her home & say,”Oh what a pity”.

Our Katy was a good wife & doing all right things,

Kept home & obeyed, but always dreamed of wings,

Katy was a good mother, pandering to kids whims,

All ran her ragged, to exhaustion & old wrinkled skin.

Then one day our Katy woke up & said the magic word,

Through that word she grew wings & flew up like a bird,

And all were shocked & troubled by this new & awful blow,

It was all because our Katy had learned to say that “No”.

From the kernel of that “No”, our Katy blossomed & grew,

She was prettier now by far, as higher each day she flew,

And respected more by all now, as she went about her way,

After all her chores were done, Katy even learned to play.

“What I don´t understand”, she thought, deep inside her head,

Is why this simple word of “No”, is not taught before we wed,

It´s as if because we are women, we are deemed to be the fools?

When the simple word of “No”, should be taught to girls in schools.

TRESSES:

Long luxuriant locks, loopy-curls, plaits & long braided strands,

Around faces, down backs, running through eager waiting hands,

Cascading like waterfalls, between fingers, silken, & softly exotic,

Spread gently, splayed upon loves pillows, kissed, sweatily erotic.

Resting on nape of vulnerable neck, deftly coiled, sweetly swirled,

Tucked into scarf & hat, behind veil hidden, patted, gently furled,

Draped over rounded shoulder, caressing pearled & milky breasts,

Memory´s locks, saved in gold lockets, upon heart´s beating chest.

Curled tenderly behind pink ear & gently by the sun, hotly kissed,

In early dawned ice-kissed outings, tickled by grey & dewy mists,

Dyed, razor-chopped & elfin-cropped, or spiky, rolled & crimped,

Loosely flowing, gathered in snoods, combed, brushed & primped.

Colours of spring, blonde highlights, glimmers of the dancing sun,

Colours of summer, daring, hot-paprika & streaks of festival fun,

Colours of autumn, like leaves turning, black, red & gold-wheaten,

Colours of winter, iced & frosty-turning, pewter now coldly-beaten.

In the mirror, now I see the streaking flashes of glinting moonlight,

From my furrowed ancient brow, to where the snow starts to bite,

Now I see silver wisdom, bestowed upon my old & very tired head,

The colourless shade of ancient tresses, upon the pillow of the dead.

THE GUIDE DOG:

I have never-ever seen you & we know I never will,

Although you´ve walked me far, over fen, field & hill,

From a tiny little puppy placed in my trembling hands,

I knew that you & I would make all our future plans,

You´d gently nudge me, with your soft & velvet maw,

Upon my knee, you would place your gentle little paw,

You knew I had no vision & you sensed I had no sight,

You offered me your guidance to aid my sorry plight,

You guided here & guided there without a single hitch,

Crossing roads & fields with no problem snag nor glitch,

I know you know I see you, with my secret & inner eye,

And I know in my soul, that we´ll be together till you die,

The trust we share is deep, with love, tight & very binding,

The paths we walk together, searching & always finding.