My Travels
Your eyes are moors.
Your hands are angels.
Your hair is Autumn.
Your lips are frosting.
…like the theatre
and dancer’s passion
and tragedy
and despair.
Rioja
Rioja
I passed through your land and wish to return.
I glanced at your face and my home I’ll now spurn.
I gazed in your eyes and your will I must learn.
Everyday is a Journey
and the journey itself is home.
~ Matsuo Batso
My Sweet
Late into the night your image appears
slowly, like Cassiopeia, to grow
in little specs of pure light
to challenge darkness and danger.
In full brightness you dance in my vision,
gliding graceful
billowing swan grey with filmy mist…
Colors
The trees are blue, blue is orange
red and white
See me here in your midst
standing right
In front of you alone holding on
to your sight…
She wore red…
but I dreamed of her
in blues
RED
Red
why do I crave you
was Oedipus trapped
is my penis at fault…
