wild sundays swing on crescent moon tips
herbs scent the english country gardens
and tea pours from hot caldrons
to meet the lips of joyous children at play
lawns carpet the growing expanse of imagination
immortal coils bound on pleasant cobblestone streets
these are the scenes that flash across the stage
curtains rise to reveal spinning dancers
dressed in flaming white tunics
all the while a great caravan crosses the gypsum dunes
water flows from the taps of a billion prairie homesteads
and sweet dates are harvested from desert palms
oh the imagination!
it carries us on high like so many puffs of whispy air
visions come like stolen marbles from streetside games
helium voices fill a rainbow
golden rain pummels the dusty plains
trickling down through cracks and fissures
pumping life-blood to the starving corn
giant sunflowers face the sun as if waiting to be kissed
and all these dreamy thoughts course like river fingers
dampening the delta grass
quenching the tongues of great orators
and filling glasses with the sweet nectar of fallen petals
what can these wild imaginings mean?
they course through my mind
creating magical tapestries
and send me tumbling down green hillsides
i must stop now!
and think…
what will be in days to come
dreams?
illusions…
or just the advance of sun-chasing shadows
but what does it matter now
i am here amongst starlets and maidens of youth
and where else should i be?
for my head is my home
my heart is my chariot
and i will not march quietly away
but stand and deliver
conjuring new visions of grandeur
and waiting…
for this day may never come again!
8 Feb
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