Song for Laramie

A bride of humour,
Stitched together
With magic and slings
And science and then,
What darkness, what light
Is yet to be known?

What’s jagged, unsung,
Oh, yesterdays child,
Your picture in soft light.

Oh, dove-like princess,
Whose arctic sting
One would be remiss to forget.

Oh, gentle wind,
Watch out for cyclists
Who flit past car doors.

Drift off now sweet,
A Monday noon snooze.
Sipping dry gin,
No vermouth.

Song for the Moon

Moon flower
Grown by adversarial
Thorn.

Memories of care
Spill from this brain,
Water from
A jug too full.

My moon flower, resting
Through darkest night,
On boughs of delilah,
Your gentle heart fills
Emaciated souls with
Warmth so profound
We may never know.

Though burdened by
The fruits of labour
That fill our lives,
Moon flower,
There will always be time
For love.

Song for Lips

The leaves may change
In your tender heart,
But always rests true
Fierce conviction of stone,
And the love of tender grass.

A chance encounter
One lonely night,
We drew together.

And then,
Again and again
And again.

Undeniable, inscrutable charm
Spills over your
Bubbling being with
Razor wit on manic lament.

Crowded bedrooms
And empty halls,
Venues blessed by
Benevolent spirits
Not yet known.

Vacant rented rooms,
Alive with inspiration
Of wheeling minds.

Babble and gossip,
A thousand nights
With no end in sight.

Most of all, I recall
The honeyed need
To draw close,
To jump start this robotic heart
With the thunderous jolt
Of your most human spark.

Taller than mountains,
Deeper than seas.
Some candlelit profession,
Through a corridor
Of subtle hearts.

Feelings with no names
Rise from foot to crown.
We wander there,
How dear, a casual frown.