Leeward yaw and Southern Paw puts right forward when march is called. Armbruster’s hook and Captain Cook, shook the tree so hard the mastiff stalled. The Queens in jubilation, never mind her exploitation of merriment and song gone for six days strong. After twenty one pop their cork time to dirty up the fork asking all the children if perhaps our bash may be right or wrong.

He loved those quizzical poems of deep leather tome’s with binding so sound and gilds all around, those tend to make the parlor quite musty. We found reason and wanted wisdom akin it. Nonplussed we fussed, infrequently we cussed to the teller and the feller who make’s whiskey out of wine. There is no convocation that will exemplify the nation to last throughout edification. we longed for the scents of yesteryear to relieve the fear of unfamiliar the gross and quite peculiar steering away from the queer to reflections quite clear we put the extemporaneous out of fashion.

And in the AM ridiculed for season. It’s so much last season and why one would bring up old fruit, last harvest or run to the root cellar for preserves when today’s pickings are sitting on the settee. Learning from leave behinds of greater minds then mine, I turn and twist to read each sign careful that I followed their design. Some plans wiggle and work because some jerk made refinement or restitution allowing the allowable. Rules and gems of wiser men circulate and perchance permeate the brief wakeful decency of social presence. When we refuse the collective dumb then some of God’s wisdom may catch hold creating welcome agreement and repository for greater reflection and discourse. Absent words we are just cackling birds praying someone hears our sweet song and comes along to swap; reasons, rhyme of action.

Lacking appropriate perspective, I stand back with eye closed and thumb up attempting some sense of confidence that she immediately sees beyond. The call out is often the best part of what a relationship is all about when our stuff is just fluff and we’ve all had enough of the fine and the rough. So we speak to each other in wonder, in passionate export of dreams and whisper that is seldom captured rarely shared and often left over sweetened or simply freeze dried for discerning man to ponder. Which way to the Witch Way and which pallet of rubbish shall I weigh and then defray to lesser understanding whilst mannered men demand wands and wakened potions or petrification or perspicacity?

Outside the yellow painted pavement my feet stand slippery at best constantly danger of listing past the wales. I dream of darkened spaces, where creatures of pressured madness lure me to make sense of their quizzes. Testing, tempting, release, recatch, dispatch then recall a worn ball of linen having been properly clawed by kitten. Rewritten rhymes of days when words meant more to men then simple statements of validity. Passions where love found itself competing for top billet. As the lesser minds of creation found hate, cruelty and bias their liking. Dragging humanity in to the depths and swirling wells of impurity, dunking it into its own excrement and vomit to teach it a lesson of the Power of petulant men. Stale the verb most equated with this leaking bag of existence referred to in the living. Dark because that is what men create in their moments venturing from truth and reason. Finding nothing but the reprobate absence of anything Holy we revile ourselves and seek to dive deeper into the nebulous night hoping that black is not the only dark, that something darker still remains.

Why Light? What grand warmth and brightness rekindles our flame each time we waken to find a morn’s anew? Men are choice and practice, failure and reinvigoration for this broken world knows well the repeat of its crimes. When wind blows slowly you bet to taste the ranky rose of yesterday’s hateful meaning or tomorrows convenient covetousness. There is nothing ripe or ready within my luggage, Master. Nothing safe for consumption or even worthy of mention to the youth in attempted edification. I have no brave stories of a world that employs power and kindness in right fashion. No tales of wiser men then I who shared to lurid and seismic giblets of days gone by well done or nights spent freely in the presence and cool knowledge of those speaking adoration. No this must be done through exchange. My stockade swapped for this tasty alluring beam of penetration you call light. I find it completely unfamiliar, torturous perhaps looking at every scar, crack and crevice, refining, defining, wandering into pockets and places into which nobody’s nose should find repose. It is in a sense soothing in its warmth as if comfort cocoon provided by sun or moon. But goes away even quicker than it came, stolen leaving the miserable greys and haze of persimmons rebound. Not excluded but cause for further investigation as the frustration of being out in the light is far less comforting than the warm shoulder it provided.