Pic of the day

Pic of the day
Somehow, she's always the one up here.

Tuesday, December 25, 2012

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.

Thursday, December 20, 2012

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.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

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.

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

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:
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.