Midnight pass

There's a haze in the air. 

Gloria's in my hand; it's been a while. 

Floyd's pink guitar 

playing in his inimitable style.

The madness mellows

the world isn't shining in its morning glory.

Even the spin slows

as every teller slowly spins a story.

All the world's a-playin'

and every bit character's a stage

with lines to be sayin'.

Every lit window's another page.

A time when alcohol

has, every sin of nicotine, negated

and conversation is all

about pathology 'tween creator and created.

In the light

of screen-savoured glowing prisms

we delight

in spanish, french and euro rhythms.

Spanish strings

in the background; talk of twinkles from a window.

And of horns and wings

and traditions of people who up and go.

All kinds of carols roll

as they pass in the midnight's mass.

We awake and cajole

a sunny rock-n-roll Christmas.

What I felt the world needs

When air about

is one of doubt,

anger, hate,

and hollow debate;

when all around

distaste is found

and dejection and disaster

make cynicism grow faster;

when a shadow, so dark, its head rears

and the soul does tremble as it fears

that the only message one wishes to send

is for this filthy world to end

let's give thanks.

Let's give thanks

for the fact that birds still fly;

that grass is green under a somewhat blue sky;

for the fact that music lives

still and our hearts, some hope, gives;

for the tender smile

that we see once in a while

in a passing stranger

without any danger;

for the life we gave a child

who's still so innocent and mild

she weeps as the last flower falls

and is overjoyed at the koel's calls;

for the fact that we still see beauty

in an actor's performance of his duty;

for the joy in that bounding greeting

the street dog shows in the everyday meeting;

for the wonderful part

played by wonderful art

in our lives

and in our hives;

for the invention of the pop-tart;

for the late morning's sleepy start;

for chocolate and coffee;

for wine and whiskey;

for an evening's gentle rain;

for good ol' mary-jane;

for trees of green, red roses too;

for every time someone said, "I love you.".

And last of all, but standing tall,

before this world of ours ends,

let's all shout and make it a call:

let's give thanks for all our friends.

The morning after

The morning after

a regular night with a nip in the air

and dreams of the coming morrow's care.

The morning after

a sumptuous meal that followed a drink

and conversation and company's clink.

The morning after

the chilling of many street-dwellers' bones,

for which the warm morning sun atones.

The morning after

a whole day's choices and sub-conscious voices

that slowly became ignorable noises.

The morning after

a full day's toil of truth and lies

and helium plans that hope to rise.

The morning after

a silent night of truthful sleep

where falsehoods and illusions cannot creep.

The morning after

the passions of head-boards, sheets and pillows

as a healthy expression of screams and bellows.

The morning after

a story of conflicts and resolutions;

of wanton sins and their absolutions.

Tock, you lazy tick!

Written some time ago, for a different purpose. Wasn't used, and found it's place here.

I yearn in aching pain
yet know there's nought to gain.
Twisted in knots
the gut slowly rots.
Oh why do I yearn in vain?

I know the ticks of clocks
and their respective tocks.
Egyptian or Swiss,
not one they'll miss.
I'll knock off their socks!

Oh dreary second's hand:
each movement made so grand!
You think you're great
for all must wait
for you, your tick, to land!

You cannot move too fast!
I doubt that I will last!
This week must end!
If't does, I'll send
you gifts of glory, vast!

I know the clock must tick
but a week to be so sick
is rather cruel.
I'd fight a duel
to tock that lazy tick!

And I shall tell you why
and what doth lie so nigh,
that being so near
it's still not here:
the object of mine eye.

This week has truly been
among the worst I've seen:
Nauseated
constipated
and now in pain, obscene.

For I've been ill as hell
and long to be well.
You see, 'tis health - 
that precious wealth - 
for whom my heart doth swell.