Porcelain Story

Porcelain Story

Written for my daughter Miriam and inspired by her first alarm-clock–a little porcelain girl below a clock in an apple-tree, and her piggy bank (which was always empty!).


Beside a big old Apple tree
Within a pleasant dell,
There was a tiny house wherein
A piggy-bank did dwell;

And when that piggy-bank walked out
One fine bright sunny morn,
He saw a little porcelain girl
Pick flowers on the lawn;

In hat and blouse and shoes of pink
And pants of pastel blue,
She strolled amidst the clover trailing
Footprints in the dew;

With skin of polished ivory
As white as falling snow,
Her braided golden-ivy locks
O’er slender shoulders flowed;

And ocean-pools of deepest blue
That paled the morning sky,
Where dreams beyond the rainbow’s end
Behind those eyes did lie;

And as the piggy-bank approached
That China figurine,
He stopped and stared to see her lips
Of ripest cherry sheen;

For on those lips a simple smile
Of greeting there did glow,
While in her tiny china hand
A daisy did she hold;

“Do you have dreams?” her voice intoned
A kiss upon his ear,
Like stardust falling through the mist
Yet ringing true and clear;

Forlorn the piggy-bank did pause
And turn toward the sky,
“I do,” He whispered with a sigh
And yearning in his eye;

“I dream of hidden treasures lying
Buried in my hull,
I dream of being satisfied
I dream of being full”;

“I dream of being opened-up
To shouts of joy and glee,
Of happy children running to
The candy store with me”;

“Of spending all my hoarded jewels
On Mothers Day’s surprise,
And seeing well-loved mother with
A teardrop in her eye”;

“But I am just a piggy-bank,
An empty vault of clay,
And I can only dream upon
That happy rainy day”;

“For many are the rainy days
That I’ve seen come and go,
But ne’er a silver shilling for
To line those clouds with gold”;

“And vainly does the needy soul
Seek charity in me,
For empty do I e’er remain
A dry and lifeless sea”.

And through a sudden mistiness
That in his eyes did gleam,
He saw a porcelain teardrop fall
That from blue eyes did stream;

“Oh dearest little china girl
I beg you not to mourn,
For I will gladly empty be
To see your sorrows shorn!”

“O’ piggy-bank you’re wise and good
My sorrow’s for we two,
For I am lost and all alone
My life is empty too”;

“For I was made by loving hands
To love the march of time,
And care for my beloved clock
That in this apple chimed”;

“And as the roots of this old tree
Grow deep in to the ground,
So was the love by which my dearest
Clock to me was bound”;

“But then one gray and fateful day
A dreadful thunder cloud,
Did see me from the sky above
And in love’s spell was bound”;

“Impassioned he did beckon me
But I refused to go,
And in his rage a lighting bolt
Of fury he did throw”;

“And struck my dear beloved clock
A mortal sundering blow!
So now I have no time to love
And I must love lone;”

And as her heart at last became
Unburdened from her pain,
She turned her tear-swept eyes upon
The piggy-bank again;

“Oh piggy-bank why do we bide
Where torments never stop,
You with your sad emptiness
And I with none to love?”

“For I was made to give my love
And you were made to take,
Let’s put the past to rest and seek
For happiness in fate”;

“Stay with me now and I will fill
Your emptiness with love,
And both of us shall be fulfilled
Our purpose from above”;

And so forever they remained
A happy porcelain pair,
A piggy-bank filled to the brim,
A doll with love to spare;

And in that tiny house that stands
Beside the tree so old,
There’s ne’er a rainy day who’s cloud’s
Aren’t lined with streaks of gold.


Garden Memories

Retinal cell axons! Image: www.rpbusa.org

Retinal cell axons!
Image: http://www.rpbusa.org

Garden Memories

Carib sun, pastel sky
spectra felt with inner-eye
neurons fly, axons sigh
nerve-stems cry to visions high
Tactile breath, words of touch
hearts that melt as fingers clutch
hands that brush, faces flush
hormones rush as bodies crush
Flower bed, a body’s scent
psychedelic redolence
stigma rent to pollen vent
aroma sent in passion spent
Mists that form on memory’s fission
shrouds of time, intermission
trite incision, mind’s perdition
time’s derision, of my vision

Gaia’s Ball

Gaia--Borrowed from the Mission Galactic Freedom blog. (Click on image to visit)

Gaia–Borrowed from the Mission Galactic Freedom blog.
(Click on image to visit)

Gaia’s Ball

When hurly lows and lazy highs
Succumb to youth’s melodic spells,
To waltz around the ballroom skies
And whirl above the rolling swells;
And summer’s milk-and-honey voice
Imbued with vernal-passion’s sighs
Intones the chant of her rejoicing
Borne on winds of fairest guise;
Then hark the heron’s hawking wauls
When from across the bay she brings
Forebodings of impending squalls
That follow on her fleeting wings,
For sunshine soon shall be repealed,
Occluded by the tempest’s shroud,
The winds will blast, their guise revealed
As lightning rips though torrid cloud;
And when the grand finale vent
Leaves Gaia’s voice in quiet remission,
Summer’s youthful passions spent,
Again it rains with sunshine’s fission;
Then hurly lows and lazy highs
Shall once again sedated be
To waltz around the ballroom skies
And whirl above the rolling sea.

The Hunter


Orion--The Hunter

Orion–The Hunter

The Hunter

Take aim, o’ hunter, stretch your bow
Drawn tight on arrows flight,
And loose that star-tipped astral bolt
This hardened heart to smite;

To rend these wretched tower walls
For passion’s tortured cries,
To find release and be consumed
In your eternal skies;

Behold the sparkling sequined belt
That girths your hunter’s waist,
Those tiny sparks of glittering light
That transcend time and space;

From such a nebulae am I
Conceived in newborn suns,
My DNA is stardust-laced
My blood with sunlight runs;

Yet though my heart with passion swells
Your majesty to see,
Dark-matter rules this feeble soul
Blind mortal that I be;

So shoot your arrow true and swift
That virtue’s light may flow,
Transform the dark crypt of my mind
With passion’s starlit glow;

Then I will fill my quill to brim
Galactic mists I’ll fly,
To write about Orion’s Bow
Upon the parchment sky.

Treadmill Express

The-down-escalator-London-006Treadmill Express

Morpheus, healer, hold me fast,
Perpetuate your sea of night,
For tides of dawn a-cull with might
To strafe me back to shores of light.
Yet purged I’m torn from slumber’s arms,
From balms of soothing bliss I’m wrenched,
My wounds unhealed my thirst unquenched,
In verity’s cold grip I’m clenched;
And stark emerged from surf of sleep
To climb once more the cliff of day,
Through dawn’s chill-mist I make my way
To join the masses in the fray;
And make again that steep descent
Into suburbia’s heaving numbles,
Where Miller’s dirge relentless rumbles
E’er the subway stairway trundles
Down to that tube. Beneath the earth,
From platform packed to dire excess,
I step into the swelling press,
The seven-oh-five—Treadmill Express.

Enchanted Days

800px-Tree_and_street_lamp_in_winterEnchanted Days

Where August’s children once did play
Among the verdant leaves,
Till Arctic legions marched to slay
September’s dancing breeze;

And summer’s ragged remnant sent
O’er allied western seas,
Fell to the gusting flurries vent
By North Wind’s blasting freeze;

Till battling winds surrendered to
The host of winter’s flow,
And autumn leaves lay buried ‘neath
The newly fallen snow;

See now the frosty glacial mist
Of winter’s creeping breath,
His formless mouth on autumn’s lips
Bestow the kiss of death;

See how his arms stretch o’er the land
A petrified embrace,
Held frozen in his frosty hand
In sheets of ice encased;

O’ summer days of passions high
How well your dawns are missed!
The glory of your morning sky
That burned the dew-drenched mist;

And golden autumn’s clement stir
That flayed the swaying trees,
Till auburn diamonds filled the air
And paved the streets with leaves;

In sadness we do say farewell
To your enchanted days,
As all succumb to winter’s spell
And his beguiling ways;

For now a blanket soft and white
Enshrouds your dormant land,
Preserved in ice and sleeping tight
In winter’s covering hand;

And in his arms you’ll slumber long
Until the dawn of spring,
When you’ll awaken to the song
Of swallows on the wing.

Cold Steel

george_bernard_shaw_art_540Cold Steel

Cold steel and steel can never meld
Sans fire and flux to make the weld,
In separate states forever smelt
Bereft of heat to make them melt;

And in the furnace of the mind
Where thoughts and words transform combined,
What heat but passion from the heart
Can catalyze those unbound parts?

What flux save for emotions feel
Can fuse imaginations steel?
What fire but creativity
Can fuel the forge of poetry?

In every mind a world unique
Portrays its own reality,
In every heart a soul that seeks
Release from passion’s ardent heat;

And you, sad pedagogue of writ
In ivory tower’s heights you sit,
The literary bourgeoisie
The wannabe-a-Pharisee;

With sanctimonious pedantry
And shallow rationality,
You sermonize reality
And repress spontaneity;

Where is your heart? Where is desire?
Where is your passion? Where is fire?
How privileged has your life been
That you can’t speculate and dream;

Your whetted acumen is blind
To know the world within my mind,
Your intellect can’t comprehend
The depth of my experience;

Pursue release from your conceit
Try standing on your own two feet,
Throw-off the robes and go without
And learn what real-life’s all about;

Go live in Haiti on the street
To beg for food and go bare-feet,
You’ll seek relief in destitution
Abstraction’s wisdom in affliction;

Your erudition will be free
To ruminate exquisitely,
When misery and deprivation
Bring to naught your education;

Then spend some time with UNICEF
Attend some starving children’s deaths,
And look into their parents eyes
To tell them not to theorize;

And when you’ve learned to wonder why
Compassion’s tears have wet your eye,
When you know your own contrition
And seek relief in dream and vision;

Then go back to that ivory tower
With all your rationale and power,
And sprinkle petrol all around
Then strike a match and burn it down.

Celtic Wind

Celtic Wind

When autumn’s fickle whims prevail
Those mistral airs to blast,
And heaving ship trims brimming sail
To groans of tortured mast;

Then to our shores those Celtic Winds
Shall blow o’er churning seas,
And sweep the shifting dunes to sing
A-howling through the leas;

To swoon the shedding trees that dance
And woo the battered shore,
Where grasses bend in humble stance
And bow their heads in awe;

White plumes of clashing wave-crest spray
Explode from foaming crowns,
Their kelpish brine born ‘cross the bay
To rain o’er coastal towns;

And o’ to drink that Irish air
Infused with shamrock spice,
Imbued the vein the heart to stir
The eye to brim with life;

So we shall savor his sojourn
In our transfigured land,
Until the sceptre be returned
To cold and staying hands;

For soon the breath of Emerald Isle
Will silence and be still,
Upon return from exile of
The king of winter’s chill;

And then amid the silence kissed
By sombre winter freeze,
We’ll reminisce through icy mist
your noble Irish breeze.