‘i me myne’

Pio and her lover

There was an absence and the
moon stood still,
a water honeyed rain fell silent
along the sill;
her lover coming from faraway
from the great war,
in the wind-heaved twilight she
could not be sure;
a black bird kept tapping on
the pane,
then growing dull flew away its
wings curtaining the rain;
she was not certain if it was an
omen, rubbing her eyes,
is it a new beginning or an ending
she would soon realize;
in her parlor, the rain sang with her
a melancholy tune,
my darling where are you, cast her
eyes to the moon;
beneath in the silvery surf a
wooden boat,
a spiny sail cast in the shadows,
a skittery rote;
rudder slipped into silvery craters
in a simple drowse,
running down the beachhead,
crying seeping to espouse;
her hand slowly touched him, you came
to me, said in a whisper,
he lay still in the spume of waves, comes
a dark way, the redeemer.

#1Pio and her lover

Morris and his impulses

Aging grey on hair and beard
and other echoes
of time- disturbing the dust
on a clock,
shall Morris follow?

Despite his number of years
he was dignified
yet invisible in others eyes;
much like Autumn leaves
hidden in shrubbery.

So, he moved, in a formal
day-to-day pattern along
the empty alleys of
life; quite often
down the drained pools
hidden excitedly by rain
(that could not bear too much reality).

Whilst there, Morris would search
for garlic and sapphires
in the drying mud;
sing an appeasing song to
satisfy any winged bird,
ascend to a nearby tree
to join them.

His compulsion did not go unnoticed,
for on one particular occasion
a woman bird watching caught
sight in her binoculars;
she sang out in a chirping vernacular:
voice in, voice out from
wholesome lungs.

In appetency, in his operant way,
Morris invited her up to
a limb on the tree;
they clutched and clung,
fingers curled,
birds chortled,
winter crumbled into Spring.

Their love whirled like a wafted wind,
hearts afire (with deep thought and
meaning); every moment anew of
belonging to each other,
till death do they; until, happily ever.

#2Morris and his impulses

A long love

Love is handily made of what is necessary
To replace a loneliness;
A plainly made agreement on paper to stop
The holes- the one in the heart,
The one for a singular arrangement established
By a length of emptiness.

Did she mean, did he say, you do not cry,
Tell lightly what you meant;
All of which nobody not you knew.
But it is so. Once in a while you wait.
There is no search, but there is hope.

A circle of a ring and a chance for pleasure
And not getting tired of it,
It shows there is no mistake.
A commitment is a commitment and does
Not connect under a bed.
The sight of a reason, the same sight slighter,
The intention to wishing,
The same splendor is a necessity needed.

A method of love, a single climb to a system,
Lily white with a noise and a grace;
Not in a catalogue, not a resignation-
All makes for a silver lining with no ribbon.

#3A long love