Tags: dream on squires, lapsed into blogging, sorry
At some point you have to pick a true allegiance to something, and often it is already a lost cause. In the end though, you are not dead, you are sitting around on a beach watching children led by their mothers into the sea for the first time and thinking cool, The World Cup in Australia would be a nice thing,
I might write another football poem, should be a breeze,
Tags: a simple hand clap, australian sentences
This incredibly wonderful human type creature, a Gabrielle, lives just up the coast from me. She is a protector of strange chickens which remind me of French noblemen. They are indeed marvellous creations.
She worries about chicken hawks and I can well understand the difference between Oscar Peterson’s obvious lyricism and Monk’s right hand. I wrote a series of poems in which a mysterious man is always popping in and out of limos, his name was three card.
Both those gentleman understand that there is narrative in sound. A narrative in other than words
And now, Gabrielle, I am sitting here on a gorgeous blue winter morning. The air is so clear. Some woodland bird is practising his first mating call. Spring and the tiger meditation, not yet sprung,
(listening to Oscar Peterson’s Night Train, link goes to a cool review.)