5-7-5 (take seventy-three : air)

the poetry cries
born of each long drawn out sigh
writ new in each breath

Living La Dolce Vita

A polyglotal Saturday
French chansons in my ear
with Tex-Mex in between my lips
washed down with German beer.
I may watch a nice Italian film
though that could cost to much
but if I run low on the pennies
I suppose we could go Dutch

This Little Rhyme Of Mine

this little bum of yours
you let it out your drawers
this little bum of yours
you let it out your drawers

(to be sung along to The Seekers’ version of the popular hymnal “This Little Light of Mine”)

Pour The Wine

pour the wine
its bouquet
the warm herb
of promise
for the sweet kiss
that drops
upon our lips
that rolls over
the tongue
and dizzys
our thoughts
pour the wine
’tis our vintage
pour the wine
it’s time.

I can’t believe it’s not toast

The underground smells like toast
and not the good toast
not the kind of toast your mum made
with thick melting butter
and spagetti hoops or baked beans on it
but that blackened scrapey kind
the sort that leaves little bits
of burnt up bread
all over the kitchen tops
and in the opened butter.

Tea Frog

I found a little sticker
with a frog upon a tree
he approves wholeheartedly
(it seems)
on my choice of morning tea.

5-7-5 (take seventy-two : Casey Jonesed)

writing on a train
the track gap jump back clatter
bouncing words around

Seagull Song

I want to be a seagull high
aloft above the ebbing tide
with you my little seagull pal
flying always by my side

Men At Work

I nearly fell into a hole
I did
I nearly fell into the ground
I dropped a stone to guage the depth
and from the blackness I heard no sound
I’m guessing therefore
it’s really deep
Reckoning as best as I can
that if I slipped and fell in it
I’d come out somewhere
off the coast of Japan.

The Woods (as yet Untranslated Partial Chanson)

The forest listens
to the secrets of lovers
whispered softly under
their branches,
and the leaves applaud
their approval
in the breeze
of springtime’s beginnings.