LITTLE ONES:

On little children’s souls, soft violins are played,

On breath of babes is where laughter´s prayed,

On tiny rose lips is where tender kisses are born,

And in the innocent eyes is the welcome of dawn.

In tiny soft paws you feel the true earnest trust,

In the elephant babe you´ll see the tears of musth,

In the soft gentle cooing of the small turtle dove,

One shall feel only peace & such enormous love.

It´s in the small little fingers & the shell sized nose,

New soft feathers & skin fresh as dewy pink rose,

Diamond shiny scales & the new hatched claws,

Babes are babes, whether they have toes or paws.

BIRTH OF WORDS:

From long before language was birthed & new born,

From times when upon earth, old dinosaurs stormed,

From before men wore laces, gold buttons & buckles,

And still grunted & walked upon knees & old knuckles,

Was from then letters formed, upon ancient dry tongue,

When men worshipped full moons & new golden suns.

Each letter a feather drifting away on soft whispers,

Awkward on tongues, like pebbled formed blisters,

In the furnace of sounds, from dawn´s dusty times,

From gruntings, to musical songs & lyrical rhymes,

Winging away upon tongues of the ancient old men,

From banal snortings, to sung exalting of God´s Amen.

Each letter a leaf, forming words on branches of trees,

Drifting to earth, on the breath of soft autumn breeze,

Each word a whispering upon the tongues of the man,

In accents, whistles & the clicks of the ancient old San,

Roots deep bedded in Latin, Greek & the mystical Celt,

Forming lingos in idioms, when together they´re smelt.

The twitterings in voices of the feathered & the plumed,

 Clinking & tinkling of stars as they´re waltzed by the moon,

The splashing of raindrops, waterfalls & laughing blue tide,

The rusty crunching of red leaves as they dance side by side,

Please, talk me & sing me in the lost letters of your breath,

Let me hear your words of love, as I now dance to my death.

OF PIGEONS AND TURTLE DOVES:

The urban burden of litter, critters & old mean rats,

Of the oily streets, gritty kerbs & stinking hungry cats,

Of bats clinging in cloisters, of monks & chanting nuns,

Overflowing bins, spewing old papers & half eaten buns.

Is it only me who can see the beauty of old grey towns?

At new dawn before the emergence of all human clowns,

Before car & man turns the day into rushed moving hell,

I sit in the plaza, awaiting the tolling of chapel´s first bell.

This place of old stone where the cold fountains spray,

I sit & watch simple feathered ones at their joyful play,

The humble pigeons & the cooing of sweet turtle doves,

All strutting for crumbs, before flying to old eaves above.

They´re not peacocks or hummingbirds jeweled & gaudy,

They´re not exotic ostriches, nor eagles mightily bawdy,

They´re just simple little birds of pavements old & grey,

Those you pass without a glance on every working day.

Just pigeons & turtle doves, without fine plume or name,

With no voices of angels to take them to feathered fame,

Merely feathered friends of early & solitary urban dawns,

I welcome their quiet friendship in my every waking morn.

HATCHET:

Hatchet, axe, a tool by any other form or name,

Call it what you will, but in the end it´s all the same,

Primitive, old, made from men´s humble beginnings,

Used for all his needs & often, many erring sinnings.           

Handle hewn & planed, as smooth as watered silk,

From wood that’s hard as nails & yet as pale as milk,         ´

Head of iron, steel, flint, or grey cold & beaten stone,

Sharpened edge, blade of razor, shaped & finely honed,

Made by hand, soil-toiled & gnarled of hardened bone,

With patience & often blaspheming & sweated moan,

Worked until completed, new & ready for work & use,

For man´s survival, ritual & sadly also in man´s abuse.

For carcass splintered & firewood warmly chopped,

For tossing games & the enemy prematurely stopped,

Tomahawk, hatchet, chopper, or just the simple axe,

Bones in cauldrons, heads scalped, wood in winter stacks.

Used in circles, by the fire, with mystic chanting friends,

Buried deeply with regrets, when you make amends,

This simple hatchet, this tool, called by many a name,

Made by the hand of the man, the only one to blame.

FROM BEYOND THE GRAVE:

I have gone & left you alone on this old cold earth,

And I apologize; for all that it may be really worth,

It wasn’t my choice & I had never planned to leave,

Wasn´t down to my tricks & no cards up my sleeve.

My time was up & over, it was all just God´s good will,

Leaving you alone with life & its hard & oft bitter pill,

I am so very sorry I left you & was torn from your life,

You were my one & only love, my precious sweet wife.

Please do not kneel & wail alone, at my old grey tomb,

Let sweet sleep not forsake you for the love of the moon,

Also, don´t bury your smile into the crease of your frown,

And remember always, you were the jewel in my crown.

Share the joyous songs with the plumed birds of the air,

Dress only in the colours of all flowers, pretty, gay & fair,                                    

Let your happy laughter mingle with the giggle of streams,

And do not let my passing ever interfere with your dreams.

From beyond my cold grave dear, please do listen to me,       

Your life my dear, is for living, so stop, listen, learn & see,

So lift up your frilled skirts dear & go dance on your way,

This is no place to be my dear, just to kneel, weep & pray.                

I am no longer here, beneath this grave´s old musty loam,         

Kneel no more here my love; I have gone back to my home,

To the place we all come from, in the soft sun of God´s face,

I shall be here for you, waiting, when you return to this place.