roundabout

we move in circles through the mist
and chance to come upon
a moment spun in silver thread
a hanging fragile frond

we breathe out fear
and snap its hold
we tear its promise down
and then we angrily declare
the world a hollow mound

we only see the small we know
and too much emptiness
the in between, the subtle light
the shadow is repressed

round and round we play at life
we bargain and we jest
we build our minds, we plough up faith
and burn the place of rest

then creeps the night;
and all is silent.

this beautiful dream (namaste Tania)

lucky fish

if wishes were fishes
then lunch would go crunch
& resound with the slurping of sushi

fat tums would abound
and girths expand round
as the luckiest people grew luckier

except that we know
more delicious than wishes
is the feast of those who are pluckier!

the silver winged thing

trailing translucence
galaxies of stars and spheres
whirling and flirting with the wind.

floats for a moment
suspended
waiting, hoping, unattached

delighted by intransigence
delirious with unsubstantial existence
scornful of the gravitas of reality

flit, dive, many-minded and light
traveling sprite

Stoney

What stands guard over the deep river canyon by night;
moon gently laying it's beams to rest as it gazes into the dark water below
becomes a great, grey obstacle to the thirsty traveler by day.

What is hidden in the crusty red soil of the desert in solitude long forgotten
becomes buried treasure to the wide eyes and soft little fingers dig, dig, digging in the sand.

What was tossed upon the wet white sand by the careless water
becomes a moment of resolution, hand holding skin to slate-smooth skin; grey heart, grey sky, grey stone.

What flows with the waves of my inner ocean, what soars speck-high on gusting thoughts, what rages in the night fire of my belly becomes still, solid, satisfying stone.

The Stone by Matthew Williams, 7 yrs

The Stone is big and strong, it stands there all day long.

The Stone can make a seat, and a good place to eat.


The Stone cannot move, and that I can prove.

I'll prove it to you now, We'll wait for an hour.


The Stone is black and came from a volcano,

You can carve it, that i know.


The Stone is always there,

and so people stare...

At the Stone.

its about bloody time

words on paper; just because this blog has been neglected.
They have sat, stuck inside, more sense to be expected.
instead here is frivolity, and slightly churlish energy.

a silly moment not profound,
at least, this starter poem unbound
can mark today in cyberspace
and leave my faint, and smiling trace.