Heavy rain:

Drip for the garden,

Drop for the lawn:

Drum roll for the garden,

Refreshing frogpaddle pond,

Falling future for

 Sun-parched ground.

I’m remembering a

Storm-hammered, crowded,

Noisy, light blue bus

Leaving a street market

In Yesterday’s-Gone,

No-Promise country;

A lover’s farewell:

“The skies cry,”

Biting back youngblood tears,

Biting passion-bruised lips,

“When good friends part.”

Drip for the past,

Drop for the present,

Drum-roll for the memory,

Reviving yesterday’s dancers,

Refreshing history’s dreams.


Photo: www.newtopwallpaapers.com


From a distance

She was a

dancing girl

I met on a

Bus to Venice.

Finding much in common

And shelter in laughter

On the short journey

We were piazza

Supper partners that evening,

Witnessed the new

San Marco moon

Hand in hand…

Were gentle lovers

By sunrise.

Such memories disturbed

By mistaken identity

And longing.