Lipstick kiss

of a lipstick kiss

and requisite reflections

on waves of discontent;

not a lover’s quarrel, merely

coercion by happenstance

blown through the trees;

bearing water red-handed

at the shore’s summoning – a

souvenir of the dalliance – only

to drown beneath the weight

of a lipstick kiss

Rolling hills and butterflies

He plods along
his head hung low,
his past and future
he drags in tow

And dreams as hope
then slowly dies,
of rolling hills
and butterflies

With a steady gait,
this fool of time,
just plods along
life’s hellish climb

And left alone
he bears his wait,
he bares his soul,
and bears his hate

Thus in his mind
he wants to hide,
with wings of dust
o’er pastures wide

Until his steps
lead him one day,
where he can go
to fly away

The forest path

He once walked the
forest’s path beneath
its saber arch, listening
to the march of crisp,

falling leaves in the
distance, electrified
by the banshee wails
of crickets keening

through the trees, lulled
into serenity by the
songbird’s reverie
Then from a voluptuous

horizon, came she;
variegating his dwelling
in silvery pendalogues,
poetical prisms, and

sombrous piquancy; wetting
his canopy into myriad
resplendent waterfalls,
accompanying his lullabies

with subdued percussive salt
Until her tempest fell; wild
violence unburdened by
loyalty, deafening howls

disencumbered by honour,
rending a lightning seared
wasteland of stochastic
devastation, clouded by jejune

jealousy and capricious char
His is a forest of memories,
smothered by oppressive
towering rampikes; skeletal

dreams piercing once
vibrant flora, longing
to caress the azure skies
beyond their handless

grasp, seen only when he
ventures paths within
Alone he waits in quietus,
a velleitous tree dying

in the barren wildwood; no
melodies to share his
company, no honour guard
to inhume his bones; his

roots trapped by the soil’s
filth, his marrow decayed
by the forest’s corruption

Astonish


*a fly lands on frog’s head*


Astonished by the daring impertinence of the fly,
the frog had little choice but to question him why

Why did you rest on my little green head? You know it’s my nature to eat you instead

I’ve nothing to live for in life anyway, so i thought I’d just hasten to my miserable last day

The frog could see that the fly was upset, it was as sad a small fly, as he’d ever met

What is it, dear fly, that makes you so sad? Your life, to me, doesn’t seem very bad

Everyone hates me, and shoos me away, they always berate me, and I’ve no home to stay; they say I’m unclean, and carry disease, without understanding, the swatter they seize

The frog thought for a time

Try to be happy with the thing that you are, not waste time and worry with things you are not; it by itself can carry you far, and can one day improve your given life’s lot

My friend, I don’t see what it is that you mean, I have many eyes and only see what they’re seeing

There’s nothing I’d not give to soar through the sky, zipping and zooming through the air, dear fly

But you can swim the waters, they too blue and deep, and over every land and hill you can leap

But in the waters I’m bound by my lungs and my breath, in the sky to my eyes, there is no such depth; and you needn’t leap o’er the land or the hill, when all the blue skies you reap at your will

When all’s said and done, the best we can be, is who we are in the moment, not what others can see; make the best of life’s gifts and cherish surprise, throw at small things no fits, and your happiness will rise

I think now, dear frog, I am able to see, why it’s not really bad when I’m just being me; thank you, my friend, for…

*slurp*


The fly was gone in a sticky tongue’s flash and the surprised, happy frog disappeared with a splash