Rinocerose

Rolling Stones

Poot

Then poot your little hand in mine
There ain't no hill or mountain we can't climb

I got you Bab (eroni).

- Sonny & Cher

Laughter

you can tell by the eyes

laughter is serious

it's all in the eyes

Soft, soft into

night-fall 
still warm 
like pavement 
in August 

or the gut of 
a fresh kill 
so many 
vagrants 

with cold hands 
hover over 
unlit fires 
waiting 

Let them 
burn used books 
they cannot take away 
your scent 

pressed together 
between pages 
in that small shop 
on the second floor 

up the cobbled street 
next to the salt smell 
of ocean and boats 
markets and sweat 

where you did nothing 
but blow 
on the back of my neck 
as you passed by 

rack after rack 
of musty history 

Etta James

Age Sixty-nine

I keep waiting without knowing
what I'm waiting for.
I saw the setting moon at dawn
roll over the mountain
and perhaps into the dragon's mouth
until tomorrow evening.

There is this circle I walk
that I have learned to love.
I hope one day to be a spiral
but to the birds I'm a circle.

A thousand Spaniards died looking
for gold in a swamp when it was
in the mountains in clear sight beyond.

Here, though, on local earth my heart
is at rest as a groundling, letting
my mind take flight as it will,
no longer waiting for good or bad news.

Often, lately, the night is a cold maw
and stars the scattered white teeth of the gods,
which spare none of us. At dawn I have birds,
clearly divine messengers that I don't understand
yet day by day feel the grace of their intentions.

Jim Harrison

I think of you

Naked
talking in your sleep
about chairs, sometimes in German
(which you say you can't speak)
you roll over and eat
a gummy bear in the middle of the night
and don't remember
until morning when I ask you
to pass me one too.

Maybe I'm wrong but who's to say what's right
I need somebody to help me through the night

- Fleetwood Mac

Honest Poem #1

Everything I’ve written has not been a lie
nothing I’ve written has been honest

I could write “I want to fill you with words
softly scented like flowers”

I could not write “the black petals will fall
from the once colourful tulips”

Tonight the sky’s breath fogs all the windows
in my little house there is no warmth

All night the trees remain un-leafed
try to reach up the sky is busy breathing

The whole earth moves to the beat of the lost
those who walk above it and those who lie beneath

Scratching to get somewhere else
oblivious to the source of the itch

And everywhere so many teardrops
disguised as natural disaster

Through the dirty windshield
the entire world becomes a bug streak

Scattered like ants without a hill
Where on earth are we all going?

Rubber tires turn to the sound of spring
no snow just pavement

Like the sound of a heart repeating -
Love, take me with you.

Shift

He
loves her like he celebrates the earth
firm and full of daffodils growing
at the top of an ancient wall
he walks the Keep of her curtain
draws curves into the moon of her back

She
loves him like she loves the wind
quietly unassuming
lift of the frill at the hem
hair swept from the heat of her neck
he laughs new life right into her mouth.

She breathes out -
all of him.

Picnic Haiku

red wine white wine 

fresh bread in the wicker

he nibbles her ear

Flight

A small bundle of feathers

lies still and unmoving

on the wooden deck.

Her heart breaks at the sight

and wonders why

something always gets in the way

of those who only wish to fly.

The Wobble Into Day

And the light wobbled into day

as an unsteady voice in night's ear

coaxed blush into that innocent place

just before fog lifted her veil from 

over the long bridge that let them sometimes pass 

.. one side to another 

He sees her walking, arms outstretched

her body shaped into the meaning of the word

 gather

     He knew she would open him 

   just as a float of fog had uncovered the bridge 

woman river passage man 

pebbles tossed into rings

told stories that would begin or end

but not today:

Clothed only as himself

   He begins.

A Poem by Hugo Williams

God give me strength to lead a double life.
Cut me in half.
Make each half happy in its own way
with what is left.
Let me disobey
my own best instincts
and do what I want to do, whatever that may be
without regretting it, or thinking that I might.
When I come late at night from home,
saying I have to go away,
remind me to look out the window,
to see which house I’m in.
Pin a smile on my face
when I turn up two weeks later with a tan
and presents for everyone.
Teach me how to stand and where to look
when I say the words
about where I’ve been
and what sort of time I’ve had.
Was it good or bad or somewhere in between?
I’d like to know how I feel about these things,
perhaps you’d let me know?
When it’s time to go to bed in one of my lives,
go ahead of me up the stairs,
shine a light in the corners of my room.
Tell me this: do I wear pajamas here,
or sleep with nothing on?
If you can’t oblige me by cutting me in half,
God give me strength to lead a double life.

HUGO WILLIAMS

Delight

When she sees his face
it's like the sky opens up
pours out everything blue
and she gulps great rays of light
drinks up his heat with her skin
petalled like a rose most unusual
alone but not in some wonderland
garden where great green vines
hang tangled like ropes of her hair
that sway across his thighs

just before midnight -
They own the world.