shoes

flowers and the wind in the willows

this is wind in the willows.
this is not bravery,
i am trying to form a clear picture in my misty head;
truth over mystery.
a caravan next to the sea
with no cyclones in sight.
my ear listens to my pillow at night
and i am giving it my best shot
to dream superfluous dreams.
i hear the drawl of idiot-tongue
and cactus words from my memory.
my hands carve stone steps that lead up to your mouth
as you rest on the riverboat, amongst the willows.
those oars are not ornaments, you know.

the mystery and the mountain

bat and gold, congratulations

man with dog, strange elephant and other animals

a black bat flies out of my street as i enter on my bicycle. how is this night going to end? will my head hit the pillow and flow forth a stream of peculiar dreams? darker that the bat's breath? or will my bicycle topple into the river of silent night, chain and bell complacent in the murky stream?
am i weaker than a gust of wind or stronger than a snowstorm? fighting bouts of laughter, or too serious for the library? an ocean, or fog on the window? breakfast or lunch? none of my stories make sense, anyway, but i hope the light is strong and warm and a small gust won't topple me.

the globe turns itself inside out and betony lends a hand