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Blousy guitar I don’t want to count the beats Hey Hey
My pen I have bed hair in the best way Daughter
of sunlight and air and I’m glad you were born
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It’s the first day of summer and we’re so happy
To see the sun and the satchel of colours it schleps
All those dark kilometres. The sky is so blue
And the sea is blue and the small islands in the sea
take the moon
nd take a star
when you don’t
know who you are
paint the picture in your hand
nd roll on home
take my fear
nd take the hunger
take my body
The place, the question, the question.
The place, the interest, the question.
There is the place.
There is what you do in the place.
There is your belief.
Both guitars run trebly. One noodles
Over a groove. The other slushes chords.
Then they switch. It’s quite an earnest affair.
Gotta love us brown girls, munching on fat, swinging blue hips, decked out in shells and splashes, Lawdie, bringing them woo hips.
As the jukebox teases, watch my sistas throat the heartbreak,
(a twelve-tone poem)
trite yap show
rosy twit heap
Random Link Clicker.
Royal Bath Taker.
Receiver of Foot Rubs and Praise.
Dear Regret, my leaning this morning, my leather foot, want of
…
Queen and King, they rule side by side
in golden thrones above the clouds.
Her giggle and wide eyes remind him
When I began to write, I didn’t know
each of my words would bit by bit remove
things from the world and in return leave blank
I’ve heard the phrase between you
and me too many times to believe
it to be true, but between me and you
Newfoundland is, or was, full of interesting people.
Like Larry, who would make a fool of himself on street corners
for a nickel. There…
Rain at Muchalat, rain at Sooke,
And rain, they say, from Yale to Skeena,
And the skid-roads blind, and never a look
If I when my wife is sleeping
and the baby and Kathleen
are sleeping
If I were to sleep, it would be on an iron bed,
bolted to the floor in a bomb-proof concrete room
with twelve locks on the door.
The sky, lit up like a question or
an applause meter, is beautiful
like everything else today: the leaves
I was ready for a new experience.
All the old ones had burned out.
They lay in little ashy heaps along the roadside
wade
through black jade.
Of the crow-blue mussel shells, one keeps
Had we but world enough and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
I
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
On Turning up in Her Nest with the Plough, November, 1785
Wee, sleeket, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
