we go out and dance,
pull leaves by the fistful,
weave them into crowns
that hold the hair over
our eyes
his sweet fingers,
a song of bonesssssticky
and dripping with honey
watery eyes and
cheeks, flowery
a sudden light from the street
flooding across the floor
like spit milk
where he sleeps, still
as crumpled as paper
after a hard day’s
flower thieving
Rebecca Isgrove
(c) Rebecca Isgrove 2007
A stationary point-unmoving
Upon the stillness sits my throne
From which I behold the crowds
Come and go-in haste-ever changing
Like thoughts-devoured by stormy clouds
A building Site
On weed cleared bed of earth light bulbs
grew… fifteen watts green blue and
shocking pink, one of the worker’s had
a male lover.
In a corner a hundred watt’s shone without
mercy, blinding butterflies, but gave stage
light to a pair of muddy shoes thrown
away by an artless person who didn’t see
that Günter Grass had made them.
A tramp took pity took the boots, a boy
threw a stone knocked out the offensively
hundred watt bulb, lesser bulbs sighed cast
a mellow glow and enjoyed themselves.
Senryu
Poverty is a myth
Look at the poor they are fat
Live on sweet and crisp
Blue
Ocean
When I awoke it was Sunday morning and the seashore
had disappeared, lie in the grass by a stream that has its
nascent where winter shawls cover the blue mountain.
A white owl, ogled me as tiny snakes slithered across my
belly, dived into the streams coolness, which hurt since it
was only two feet deep.
Bleeding from a head wound, but having got rid of
the serpents, I hung my clothes to dry on an oak’s
inviting branch.
Sat on a boulder as morning sun warmed my nudeness,
when the maid who milks morning dew walked by,
she paused and asked: ” Are you a satyr?’
“No dear, I’m a sailor rejected by the sea”. She gave me
roses’ dew to drink, intoxicated I embraced her ephemeral
body and was free of the ocean’s pull.
