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Saturday, 28 December 2013

To Hell with Edgar Allen Poe, Sylvia Plath and Mark Rothko! & The Real Culprit in the Matter of Love




To Hell with Edgar Allen Poe, Sylvia Plath and Mark Rothko!



Awaking from a delicious dream I turn in my bed

to face the sea window and peer through quiet eyes
towards a fresh orange sunrise that looks painted
in oils, as it emerges from the inky depths
into slivers of sirrus clouds spread against the clean
baby blues of a canvassed
Caribbean day and my dog and I bounce outside,
only to see a blooming green pair of parrots who have noisily

flirted in the animated foilage above for weeks. 
Today they finally

kiss, rub heads, chatter and make plans to
Carpe Diem!- as they feast on
purple grapes.


They
are
getting
down

like James Brown dancing 
on my radio and me driving,
top down, even the stop signs with cheery red faces
seem to hold up a hand and say HEY! - and traffic lights playfully
wink at me along the way.

It is Friday and half day at work. The fire alarm abbreviates
this day perfectly, and soon the phone buzzes my thigh with

messages of , "We R here!" and "Hurry up!!" - and I drive
along with the

sun kissing my left shoulder. The sea to my right sparkles
with diamond caps, and the waves
kiss and pull away in the cove with white water thrusts of eternal
pleasure.
Soon I pull under the cool green leaves of
almond tree shade and
enter the pub aside the sea and there is that
moment:
I spot
my table,

friends,

one potential lover, and
they smile and
wave me over to perfect pints of beer,

giant glasses of
red wine, and a jug of red sangria. I feel

settled. A coolant of content
flows through me.

I will just stay here.





The Real Culprit in the Matter of Love 

Walking alone one windless June night
fear looked at the clock and asked,
"So, was there love or no love,
and what or who is to blame?"

Ah - Indifference. Though born of love,
it has no lover, circling slowly,
patiently with dull eyes,
peering below at the growing
empty spaces between words,
then plunging down

scattering swirls of feathers,
leaving hope bewildered and blinking back
a million tears of rain falling on the
upturned face of the sea.

But so you emerge with quiet eyes and
draw the curtains to a rain fresh morning and
the surf smooths out the new pages of white sands.
And the soft roar of the day
begins.

Friday, 27 December 2013

Punching the Moon

There are delving days when the ink blue sea whispers to me
in a sexy voice, "Come over here boy, and give me a kiss."
"Hell no girl! I am not easy like that! Anyway, I have
too much to do."

I want to get cashy and swagger with America,
drunk with England on cool draft lager,
dine with France on her clean white linens with shining silver,
then turn to Italy, her eyes of tawny pools, and say,
"You and I are going dancing with Brazil.
We'll splash across the Atlantic and
samba all night!"

Some days I feel like punching the moon out of sight,
swatting down the stars,
pouring the oceans down the drain,
and switching off the sun.

There are nights when the skies thunder with revelry and streak
with disco lightning and the rain drinks champagne
and mother nature, with her thousand Arabic pleasures,
sways over to me slow thighed...

But I've got to finish the laundry now - I've got a ton of it to do.

Tony Walton




FALL 2013

Tony Walton lives in the Cayman Islands and has been published most recently in Whisperings, Mountain Tales Press ,Burningword Literary, Out of Our Magazine and other magazines

http://poetrybay.com/fall13/TonyWalton.html

Saturday, 21 December 2013

Carabosse's Library: Dawn by Valentina Cano

Carabosse's Library: Dawn by Valentina Cano: Dawn is a pulsing light behind the pale suburban homes. The woman sits on her bed, her comforter and sheets in knots behind her, flotsa...

Thursday, 19 December 2013

Art Exhibition Hoxton Square London in year 2000

White walls surrounding

White people, drinking

White wine, in and out of the

White tiled bathroom doing

White lines.

White - that blinding light! Puzzling at blank

White canvas with snob price. Oh

White, seems to me you lost your sight.