Spice

Caution: Suggestive content

I shut my eyes and wait till you draw near,
My senses vie for auras you’ll dispense;
I do not feel for pulse or strain to hear,
Your first trace comes, as always, from a scent.

Hoc Didici

Fade to Grey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pied tombstones circumscribed

by misted mountain nearing

under adumbral clouds.

Pressed down by black umbrellas

timeworn melancholy mourners

slate-faced under chrome-combed hair

PlayStation haiku

Grand Theft Auto 5

Out today and hindering

Poetic ventures

Rhapsody in Blue Ink

 

 

 

 

 

 

To pour a poem onto page
select a well of ink
try one with mood
or brooding shrewd
perhaps a wistful ilk

Some brands can have a tad of fear
or fourteen heartbeats loud

Seamus Heaney RIP

The pen now idle

a way of telling silenced

next Tollund Man dies.

.

From furrow fertile

blackberries ripe each August

anniversary

Muse

Something in the way she smiles
Sends vibes that feel so transcendental
Blonde with bright gapped smile and blue eyes
The musos fought for her heart
Composing her songs with art.

David Gilmour with Bill Shakespeare

David Gilmour of Pink Floyd interprets Shakespeare’s Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.

Hawthorn Haiku

the sun behind the
swaying hawthorn tree contrives
transparent leafglow

its shadow on the
wall conducts an orchestra
of soft woodwind boughs

Facebook Status

Morning by Patrick William Adam. WikiCommons

A Sunday morning; the cold winter sun footprinting the carpet; wearing warm wool; the tea green and the fruit peeled; John Updike’s latest exceeding expectations; playlist pumps Tal Wilkenfeld, tactile and mellow on her Sadowsky strings; my five senses dovetail. Brain sends a wave when a particular soundbite agrees with the flash of sunlight on a crystal vase – synchronicity or synchrony? Whateva. It’s a sunny Sunday in winter and I’ll take what I have.