Concert Fantasy

Russian music, tonight, dear correspondents:

Tea with me awhile and let us reminisce,
for nothing recreates for me the steppes,
more in tune with absence, than painful piano keys.

We Russians, our history,
one long-suffering invasion after another.
Thus, my Slavic soul  shares the cutting wind
and vastness that is the Russian landscape.

And yes, though it be hard to prove,
I'd venture the guess, that Pyotr Ilyich did suicide,
and made it look like cholera.

Enjoyment

The sweeping, embracing depth of silence
my soul voyages, and then like a lighthouse
the crystal voice is heard:  You are mine.
I made you for my enjoyment.

Junior

Heed my advice, you hot and heavy breathing buckaroos.
Heed the counsel of an old dame who has lived the lives of  9 cats.
The pretty face in your scope can conceal unimaginable tricks.

Best that when you speak to girls endowed with fluttering eyelashes
and plumb bodies, shield your eyes that you may concentrate on their words,
lest they dispatch to the dreamland of suckers.

You don't have to follow my wisdom, but at least listen.
The wrinkles I bear are chapter headings
in the tome of life experiences.

If Pretty is a prospect for merger (marriage)
if Pretty invites you to meet her Mom, focus on mom.
Pretty, one day, like Mom will become.

If you don't like Mom, head for the exit and don't look back.
Or do you reckon  you are man enough
to fight mother and daughter on a two front war?

Paint Job

A corner of the living room - --
strange the designation"living room."
Are  not  all  rooms living rooms,
those in space as well as those in time?

A corner of a particular living room
in the Warsaw Ghetto on the eve of WWII
is bathed in table lamp low wattage.
The walls are painted  a pale shade of  yellow.

We grow comfortable in our skin and  living room.
Sunlight streams through the blinds in different slants
the different seasons of the year.
It's often referred to as aging.

Consider this, were you to paint over yellow
key lime green, would the Chopin on the record player
still have the same effect on you?  I doubt it.
Color effects mood,

That's why I insist,
be you rabble, rabbi or poet,
be you Rembrandt or Picasso,
a home is essentially a paint job.

Misty

It could be Danish
or white as Sweden,
fjord days in mist a washed.

Such  take me back to green and lush
to when it rained horrendous to dampen earth,
of six days kilned in thunderous fire.

I smelled New Zealand from afar
ever before I heard of Christ Church,
long before before I saw South Island  break horizon's seal

There's something misty and majestic,
about Maori men of war jutting out their tongues
Their tattoo ink sticks to your marrow and tomorrows.

They pirate your heart and head up-country
to where coffee color brides await
of lion manes honey comb.

On the soft cushions of their bodies
A taste, mate, of what else?
A dish of yummy.

Erosion

Erosion wilts
Erosion beats

Erosion eats you

Erosion turns mountains into cliffs
Erosion makes of boasters saints

In Lunar Soil

Ghost sibling twin
of  Planet X

still born after death
the  fetus face

of pock-marked smile
the mausoleum wish
the candle breathes

that last wish
that last kiss
that  lists to starboard