She Who Carries This Day

Hey Ambrosine, c'est pour vous . . .



She Who Carries This Day

The thought of you will carry my day
A kindness from your word go plus, 
Add seconds
To the mirth on a bagpipe breath, breathe in & out
And know
That it's you who -- with her own seconds -- thinks well of me

By your applause I will step witty, dance Charlestons in Paris &
Stand proud, chin up and face this world with gusto
Knowing how I know that it's you who cheers a strength
Through and through and only by your favor, I am Hercules

So Athanatos, see how I roll with that Helios on over
When you say great, darling
and like, oh darling
and smile, whoa darling
So pos[itive] I am, I'll walk this day poetically, near-immortal

Because the thought of you will carry

And on the night of this good day
When the shine you gave glows provocatively defiant in a room slept yellow
My reply will reflect how sweet I thought of you
How by your good graces, kind darling
I lived this momentous day

The Paint of the Day

And you'll have lived the good day

And He who has shown the good day

Will paint the sky and remind you

Of such a day

When blessed was your step

And the strength that you kept

For faith in Him, here is the good day

Hey Ambrosine

So it starts with a hey. "How have you been?" How have I been? And in these words is a call to disaster, a query with the assumption of some fantastic answer where a king is king and the kingdom he sits throne to is in peace and golden prospers, where no dragons spit fire, burning land. But 'tis a question asked in a time of ashes. How have I been?

Dear, this a truth that I do not parade, for what parade drags yards of uninflated cartoon balloons, withered roses, shattered stiltmen, kung fu dubbed-like lip sync singsongs and epileptic dance numbers? But you ask for this parade, darling, and there ain't no Santa at the end of this one; somewhere he got stuck in a notoriously unswept chimney and died from cookie malnutrition.

In the glory of your higher education and the brightside you found in life, there are others like me, who sit pale from no sun and remain dumb for not grasping $40,000 degrees.

I am. A loser.

And it's tough to tell you that outright, miss.

The Ghost

A sunrise ago, strumming and humming 5'whatever in the morning, I blabbered out the first two lines. Thought ooh that's an idea and kept it in mind. Affection as a nuisance then to be killed for it? Oh my, an impassioned ghost! Then by happenstance I saw the first muse reappear, aged neat and blessed and in the buzz of a feeling that once was, I wrote a song, yes another song.





The Ghost

And in this love I was your foe
You won't ever see me again I know
You ran me over when I stood
To bleed out for you, I would, stand

North, the farmer's wife now are you?
The smile you smile is it true?
You never smiled when I was around
The love from your side was never found

The promise I made was something that you may have never heard
Yes 'til the end I'd think & sing & strum about all your worth
But as gone as I am, what is it worth?
One ghost unheard

The First Muse

The first muse
but first, breakfast