Joanna

I begin a verse…

I hesitate on a word…

I lose what written freedom there is.

To a life years ago…pictured in a daydream.

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She had smelled of Henna and Poison…and, and, and…

She had come from the south…

An urbanite in flowing skirts, cotton piled upon cotton

earth tones among simple Aztec design.

Her smoke rings, gentle and meaningful.

Made menthol circles around a crowded granite tomb.

An odd figure among provincial settings…

ancient walls, ancient floors…soon to be filled dorm rooms.

Had I known of flirting…it did not provide me with a guide.

Young and bare footed…I wore, yokel…with pride.

She taught me of love without borders…

sensuality without touch…

She taught me…ever so, much.

I think of her from time to time.

A southern belle adjoined with sophistication, Cat Stevens and…

lust playing between…hours, minutes, seconds.

I think of her from time to time.

When my youth took a delicious, decadent, memorable ride.

 

the Peasant

Suffering indigent.

Possibly.

But it is the land that keeps us.

Or,

sets us free.

Each to their own poetic imagery.


Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning.
Born of the one light Eden saw play.
Praise with elation, praise every morning;
God’s recreation of the new day.