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.