Every time I see you I become less honest.
With so much life between one visit and the next,
Had I not rather flatter, than fluster you with candour?
No, I refuse.
I go for less polite and slightly grating,
And speak my mind uncensored, as before.
More to the point than pleasantries.
So when I see you next and say
“What awful perfume!” and
“What dreadful hair!” you understand
I mean to say
I love you still.
© jsmorgane (April 09)
From the greenwood hear the hooting,
From its mistress’ steady shoulders
The wise bird is softly calling.
Light is falling through the foliage,
Charming the woman’s marble skin,
In her amber pendant dancing,
On her owlet’s feathers gleaming.
The lady harkens to the forest,
Hearing the trees calmly breathing,
Then discerns a distant footfall,
And the wind takes up
Her call of welcome,
Friend.
© jsmorgane (May 2010)
The circle,
A whole,
An ever-going
And ever-returning,
The centre
Within as without,
One,
Being.
© jsmorgane (Dec 09)
