Monday, October 28, 2013


Perhaps there's a verse
will descend soon,
from maybe up there
with the kites and balloons,
or even far-higher
beyond the bright moon
whenever the Muse
is with me in tune.
Perhaps the poem
has already descended,
for a verse find now
my writing is ended !

A God within?
A God without?
God here and there?
God all about?

Our thoughts to hear,
inside must be?
And close at hand
our deeds to see?

With each of us
who are everywhere?
And invisible,
so have a care?

In his own image
made us he?
Or out his imagination
wide as any wild-sea?

She'd take out her diary
and there she would jot
just how fiery
her love-life was not.
How she longed for romance
and a heated passion
that with age
had gone out of fashion,
though she'd young-friends
for whom heated passion -
let alone romance -
was never in fashion.
Oh how it is that
many ladies yearn
for wine and roses
and a dance-floor turn,
but will make do
with far, far less,
lie to themselves in bed,
claim they got close-second best.

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