Monday, March 31, 2008

Gift of the coral Rose

She was a Romanian gypsy girl. In the first nights firelight, her trials as a young girl would arrive at their fruition. All marriage age girls would show at the campfire tonight. She was entitled to this ritual. A scarlet scarf lay draped across her beautiful hand carved mirror. Golden earrings were tossed carelessly across the same dresser that had been a wedding gift to her parents. Sweet perfume was awaiting her in a blue crystal glass container. A rose lay upon her skirt and blouse with the remnants of dew still upon its tender petals.
Fragrance from the lilacs she had picked the evening before remained in the damp morning air. The coral colored rose had mysteriously appeared on her windowsill this morning while the skies still showed purple and pink in the firmaments. Tonight an age-old tradition would be presented to many of the gypsy. Her father was full Romanian gypsy blood. Dark haired and green eyes composed her looks. Her mother was Italian. From somewhere out of the early twilight night the ardent howls of the timber wolves played a symphony of haunting night music. They too seemed anxious.
The dance began in a slow methodical rhythm of gypsy guitars and drumbeats. She slowly paced her steps and pirouettes to the tempo of beautiful gypsy music. Her skirts became a kaleidoscope of satin ribbons as she danced by the crowd. Like the morning sky colors had proved to be such a spectacle long ago, so the nights events sped by it seemed. Several eyes caught her movements and followed her progress about the dancing flames that bathed her features.
Garishly clad hosts hovered nearby anticipating the night’s events. She caught her slipper once on a fallen log but tossed her head with a cat like grin and quickly remedied her situation. It was then that dark eyes followed her from somewhere out in the dark and vast wilderness.
The ruggedly handsome features of his countenance were at once turned, peering unblinking at the angry gleams reflected from the firelight onto a golden object. This was a key to share all secrets and it was his only link that which would serve and serve him well. Only this shining heirloom could save his onerous hide. For without wearing this one key the gypsy nomads strewn about the campsite were to slit his throat. He again scrutinized the bejeweled band reposing about his trigger finger.
Verdant orbs shifted their tenacious gaze to then ponder upon the softly dancing tongues of flame. His garishly clad hosts hovering about were more dangerous than the sand scorpions that inhabited the sweltering desert sands and grasslands, and just as wily. The breathtaking beauty of a young girl caught his eyes once more and then he made his move.
Whisked away on the winds were all creatures that once composed his enemy’s campsite. In one flowing movement all had vanished, just as the great sandstorms came upon an unwary traveler. In those treacherous storms all who did not seek shelter perished in the onslaught. Only footprints remained in the sands left as last testaments and witness.
A muffled scream escaped into her scarlet sequined scarf. She was draped across a black as midnight steed and they were heading away from her beloved gypsy caravan.
She heard the tell tale hoof beats strike across the grasslands as they sped past her favorite lilacs. Perhaps this assailant was the giver of the coral colored rose. Her heart leapt, as does an eagle as he takes to his wings from a cliff precipice.
Voices spoke in a language she could not understand. From her position across the horses back she could vaguely peer through the scarf that had somehow draped across her face.
She was brusquely dropped across a satin divan. Left to partake of her surroundings she composed herself. Her eyes searched about the tent. Fresh dates that had been placed in a golden goblet tempted her. There was wine in a chilled goblet. She adjusted her eyes to the dim light. Across the tent she discovered a vase containing two freshly plucked coral roses.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Six Cats poem

Six cats
Six cats proclaim this house as home
beyond these humble walls
6 cats proclaim these humans
as their own
what better reward could I partake
than the trusting gaze
of Cazpur gentle war veteran
perched purring like an Evinrude
upon young master's lap?
Midnight black Sable, she cat
peruses ever about
a "Who done that!" glance
for each and every one of her fellow cats.
So much like Mae West
is my Sable cat
But once Sable was espied
grooming wild bob tailed Whitney
Persian brat
"Sammy from Miami" we taunt and tease
falls oblivious on smoke colored ears.
Sam will do what he pleases
Tumble and snap growl roll romp leap high and roll
Our "Boys" are play fighting as usual
we are told
this house has now comfort we call it home.
Black and white patches Oreo
commander in chief
now patrols
with puffed out chest
on the outskirts for his castle
the ladies feline paws swats
at this indignant cat as struts he
paws swat indignantly at Oreo, Sam and Casper
Muskateer toms three
Soft furry socks with wrinkled brow
in some mouse dream
at last has found her own sunbeam
Then we bid good night to our furry friends all
we hold dear to our hearts
our Casper paw paw, teen Sammy, Mae west Sable, chief Oreo
Whitney brat and soft furry Socks
may they each catch that mouse or ever eluding Autumn leaf
edit process April 10, 08 per Professor Anderson

Monday, March 10, 2008

poems from sherlock's forrests


Echoing through vast untamed darkness
Trailing fading fast was her voice
Wolves in the nearby forest spat out blueberries
With grumbles and growls their fur did they lick
Her last thoughts were wise words from her mother
Dark clouds veiled a ghostly moon
All this transpires in her mind in a whir
She brought out from folds of her cloak, her magic needle
If she could only stitch fast the rope
That held her suspended from the rock cliff..,
Be careful what you wish for..,

just a wishfull List
Like jimmy buffett songs
Watercolor paintings
Childrens books
Macadamia nuts
Dove chocolate
Soft rugs

Wednesday, March 5, 2008

Silver dog and Golden Tawny cat

Memoirs of a mad scientist

My silver ying dog slips his bejeweled leash and romps over the rough-hewn fences. He is fleeing after a golden tawny yang cat. So this balance of my earth has it tipped upon its very axis?
Rustling plumage, flurry breezes have beneath ebony wingtips bestowed sudden magic.
Alas, as hemp wrought band slips down from my wrist, a rope bracelet circles my destiny, soft folds weaving their telltale patterns in times patterns woven tightly loosely, they define a manifest moment in time.
Garbled grock, grock noises rock a branch low to the ground. Brother crow guffaws his laughter mingled with mine. In his feathered throat he brews a cacophony of earth’s news.
A stream beckons, its ripples timeless to the air, soft grey wings velvety touch ignites a reflection of suns rays upon silken rose petals.
At evening moonbeams now settle in for a brush to touch a whisper.
Frightened in the still night, a forest babe alights.
Wind chimes a sensuous symphony of delights.
Cool sapphire waters the taste how it still lingers in my soul. Springtime’s moisture, spoken words echoes memories of old. Leaves form a cradle for a chickadees bed.
Falling softly in forests slumbers somber
Hush, sleep my cubling, in golden downy dreams
Awaken at twilight softly nightingale calls
Haunting beckons her song sweet though tragic it tale of
Geisha girl pale and warrior gone on winds song
The tears of a dragon slip slowly down his scales
Second missive

My silver Ying dog slips his bejeweled collar, tugs free of leash
Romps ever bound tumultuously over rough-hewn fence
He is fleeing after golden tawny Yang cat,
this balance, of my earth, has it tipped upon its very axis?
How can a fool such as I balance destinies scales?
Rustling plumage, a flurry of breezes has beneath ebony wing tips bestowed
a sudden magic.
Alas, as hemp wrought bracelet slips from my delicate wrist, destiny circlet, how destiny entwined its soft folds, the etching and ebbing of life’s tell tale patterns, mysteries untold,
In time, patterns in time, woven loosely, tightly, they define, a manifest moment in time,
Gargled, grock, grock, noises rocks a trees foliage laden branches, low to the sacred ground,
Brother crow, guffaws his laughter, mingled with mine.
In his feathered throat he brews a cacophony of earth's news

Tuesday, March 4, 2008

Recent submission

original draft, no it is not a beer!
Jimmy buffet music melodies dance in my head
one tear too many I trade in tears for each hour that passes by
many times it’s just to survive
Soothing soft and reminiscent of bittersweet days gone by
A car on a beach a girl and all the worlds grown cold
And she’s left by the wayside

Dancing in my head are Jimmy Buffett music melodies
tears so far for each hour that passes by I trade in tears
from the past trading time purchasing each beloved hour
many times can this be to survive
Soothing reminiscent days gone by are memories bittersweet
where is that girl in the blue car on the beach?

all the worlds gone by but there is still that paradise on the beach
my life is a juke box repetition of worn and sturdy melodies
life is a lesson. This world she can be most bittersweet
I wonder about pain how just a release is hard won by tears
what is left in my life to help remedy pain just to survive
tell me torment can be summed up to pass in just an hour
symphonies my heart beats that tempo paradise lost one more hour
beseeching memories like clockwork my brain seeks that same beach
oceans deep, travelers lost how can life portray tragedy, some survive
again crescendos of music waves to my battered soul such melodies
plummeting sapphire cascading waters although they are merely tears
cascading through foggy curtains misty in my mind so bittersweet

before my eyes changes in time much is lost promises so bittersweet
the clock strikes on the hour
buy back a moment of hatred pay for a thousand insults with tears
even now just considering something as beautiful as this beach
world torn wounded from hate sanctuary is provided in melodies
another instance another spar just withdraw into a shell still survive

what remains of the day again she the beach girl can survive
I seek refuge in a beverage it’s taste remains bittersweet
Somewhere a band takes center stage and singer’s refrains are melodies
clocks tick each hand travels past on a whim with it taking in the hour
the sand is sugared crystal heaven at last to reach my goal the beach
the ocean is a vast and looming presence filled by mermaids tears

yes each willowy half fish half woman wept her deluge of tears
perhaps she can tell of a murky prison so far below where she survives
each time I remind myself it can not surpass my dreams this beach
each time my heart beats a memory brings to my mind times bittersweet
Lilly flowers float on water each moment a heartbeat past but the hour
Straining to listen beckons a harp song haunting still are melodies

Purchase paradise with. tears...bittersweet
Join me at last...survive...just for an hour
Tis only crystal sands on our ...beach. you can still hear melodies

Jail time
Sepia tone jail cell complete with iron bars,
Mystically two enlisted men are the first images
the curious viewer’s eyes greet
For two sailors who are supposedly incarcerated
these two look mighty pleased with themselves.
Are they in trouble or are they just taking advantage of a tourist attraction?
Where have they been? Has it been hell on the front?
Men marched into battle, faced death, wrote home to loved ones, care packages were sent, anticipation, waiting, holding ones breath
A list nothing more than paper to hold on to
All Government issued properties,
better stay in line sailor boy,
On the beach the actions seen, better stay alive sailor boys
each sailor wears a “dog bowl” hat and sailors uniform.
On the pitching deck the gunners raise their eyes
another enemy plane
Better “turn to” sailor boy
on your wits and instinct on a ship of steel
all or many lives depend
will war never end
as such is the outcome of all our wars,
the paper turns over in the winds..,
Officer on the Deck!
At attention now eagle’s eyes are riding high,
Better wave to the flag sailor boy
Pencil writing each stroke a mockery of wars challenges,
wars torn casualties
a card, mortal paper, a memento, a souvenir
It’s good to be alive sailor boy
Nonchalantly, the cursive l’s and r’s flow the letter turns a page
as if he were here in the flesh and blood
Perhaps the fellow sailor in the photo
still remembers my father and their adventures.
My father is an F2c rank.
It is written so
in pencil on the postcard I still cherish
Into my life fading memories stray
This photo was taken on March 22, 1946 in San Francisco, California.
This photo is actually a post card sent to play a joke on my grandmother.
If only she knew, what transpired behind the enemy lines, the terror
a paper, a postcard of wars lives impromptu
On the back of this post card
my father writes to my grandparents
About his adventures as a sailor in the middle 1940’s.

Chelsea Coffee Shop in El Lago, Texas

So Igor what's in da Box Dude!
Nevermind Igor. It's time to give a Welcome to the participants from Chelseas Coffee Shop located at 4106 Nasa Rd, El Lago, Texas 281-326-3866
We had a very kewl evening thanks to Professor Stacy Burleson and Professor B. Anderson. Valdos Restaurant and Boondoggles pub are all located in the same parking lot. The view from the waterways is spectacular. Everything turned out well except it was very chilly upstairs. In the mean time keep your eyes upward toward the stars, keep a firm hand on your ships wheel