Wherein Christine journeys across London alone, taking in as much theatre as she can before practicality snatches her back to New Hampshire.

Wings of Steel and Fire...
Wings of Steel and Fire…


Bronze and silver glitter glint

Beneath a smog-filled sky,

Whilst inky night flows with Intent

Thru rivers deep and wide;

The city sleeps, and wakes, and breathes,

A hush is on the air,

Whilst distance dampen’d pageantry

Parades its streaming fare;

Within the hold of fantasy

This world is seen below,

As if to tantalize the thought

And make a preference grow;

Yet real it is, make no mistake,

The glow fire’s glimm’ring dawn

Hails roads’ and rivers’ majesty,

Not idle Dreamer’s yawn;

Look with Intent and you will see,

Within the fireworks’ show,

The Craft of Man and ecstasy

Of life passing below.

*     *     *     *     *

Customs:  Encore

Giant jellyfish still loom above my head,

The line’s yet long, the air is still quite dry.

What’s changed is me, no trepidating tread,

Self-crippling fear, denying to belie;

Now there’s but me, firm set upon a path,

Not knowing where it leads or how it winds,

Yet that’s okay; My calculating hath

Deduced that walking thus loosens my binds;

There is no reason I should walk in fear

Of who I am or where I wish to go,

Nor need I count Gold’s lack of interest dear,

Nor serving lips, false deeds, or Kinship’s show;

My steps must tread on stones that please but me:

If I walk long, like-minded boots I’ll see.

*     *     *     *     *

London snow...
London snow…


I’m afraid I’m a very boring person,

I talk of plays and poems and of snow,

I talk of trees and mountains and bright Mindscapes,

I talk of brass, of willow, and play Go;

I’m not that good, (I’ve got no one to test),

My skills are not a practicum of kind,

With what I use to live and take my rest

I’m terribly bored and horridly disclined;

I’m willful, moody, caught within a sea

Of tines and type, I linger and I doubt,

I don’t make friends; I gravitate to be

With what I like, quite blundering about;

I don’t know how this thing that’s me exists,

And yet I do; (Though, “what to do with Me” persists.)

*     *     *     *     *


Constructs within a maze of ink

Flash fire within a melded can

Tin glide thru a cratered rink

Freeze frame thru a stuttered bran

Swing slice in a lated wood grove

Cross piece in a petal wind

Breeze crisp in a grizzled good wove

Creep dash in a kettled bend

Frost fast in a brindled hood, Yo

Keepsake in a bamboo floor, Jim

Twilight in a summer’s heat, Bo

Crash deep in a curdled roar:

Honor held in a well-taught hand

Father’s son, Proud, protect this land.

*     *     *     *     *

Tea For One


I’m not prim and proper

Nor am I stuck-up tight

But tea’s a meditative state

That must be taken right;

Shape the teapot so the spout

Does not ensure a drip

And make the strainer’s holes right small

So leaves don’t give the slip;

Place desserts on plates that are

Appropriate to size

Don’t let them slide about alone

Like googly, giant eyes;

Give me a fork that’s newly clean

Not used before for egg

And when I ask for tea for one

Don’t look as though I’m vague;

I can have a tea for one

Quite happily alone

For ’tis the act that pleases me

Not mere consumption’s tone.

*     *     *     *     *

City of Angels

The interplay between a writer’s work

And how they live is frequently bemused;

There’s no accounting for the taste of quirk

And oftentimes their motives are confused;

They haven’t need to dally with deceit,

And yet deceit of Self is how they live,

Until they’re forced to wrestle with defeat

And find the answers what they’ve writ can give;

For it’s all there within the spattered page,

Concealed beneath a wall of flattered doubt,

A fantasy within a printed cage,

Perfumed with lies, which others seek to flout;

Beneath a writer’s words are truth-bared Souls,

Which they don’t see ’til drowned with falsehood’s Tolls.

*     *     *     *     *



Within the confines of a fertile stage

I take my rest and linger on the page;

Within the text of terrifying sage

I loose my Voice and question thru the age;

Within the fields of fantasy and doubt

I find my Joy and rapture in the rout

Of vacant spleens and carapace of joy

Within the tomb of barren show and Toy;

Within the toil of Honing Craftsman’s Pride

I find respite and walk the swelling Tide

Along the shore of Passion’s frantic bide

I pace alone and watch the currents ride;

Within the confines of this fertile Sea

I loose my Heart and let my spirit free.

*     *     *     *     *


Is it a curse to see beneath the text?

To watch two shows where other Men see one?

The first, the real, bestowed with life and breath,

The second, ghost, flick-shadowing begun.

Is it a curse to hear two voices speak

In mirrored lines, when other Men hear one?

The first presented with intention brief,

The second whole, with truthful Heart now sung.

Is it a curse to feel a song betrayed

Whilst noting still the good that stands before?

To see potential in a blasted heath,

Hear fragrant notes ill-nurtured, bland, and bored.

‘Tis not a curse, this beauty haunting me,

And yet it hurts, for others do not see…

*     *     *     *     *



Exchanging looks within a crowded car,

I don’t know you, yet census isn’t far,

The way our eyes and quick expressions meet

Tells me we share opinions on this feat.

I wouldn’t know what sort of day you’ve had,

Or if your mum was feeling kind of bad,

But I can tell we both are not impressed

By how the rowdy crowd nearby doth jest,

So we share looks and smirking, secret eye

Whilst glancing left at noisesome bother by,

And then we grin and shrug and look about

Until it’s time for us to both get out;

That’s when I realize, (belatedly),

That you thought you’d been flirting well with me.

*     *     *     *     *

Awaiting Dismiss


Coming, maybe…

*     *     *     *     *


An iron hand doth hold me in this place,

Whisp’ring to write, though what I know not where

Nor why, nor how, nor caring for disgrace,

I lift my pen and bend to Idler’s care;

With ne’er a thought the words scrawl past this page,

Masking these lines with sugar-sweetened lace,

Fanning across the wisdoms of an Age

With chary toil and sprinting bosom’s chase;

The birth of this my iron hand doth guess

Cannot be seen or felt with senses sure,

Yet care not, friend, to scorn or count it less,

For here within you’ll find this bosom’s cure;

To sit and toil without a thought to Why

Is where all berths of Inspiration lie.

*     *     *     *     *



The trappings of a dream suffuse my bed

And linger fresh within my bosom’s ward,

Filling a sea with tears of spectrant dread

And hopeful grace, arousing weeping’s chord;

I cling to dreams to give my Spirit strength

For fast Despair is quick to seal his grasp,

To leave me weak, apanic with the length

Of path and toil I’ve chosen close to clasp;

For never have I deigned aspiring small,

Reaching for Stars beyond the End of Time,

And ever do I touch a glass-maze wall,

Barring my way, despite seduction’s chime;

And so I dream with glist’ring eyes of Stars,

Feeling my way past trials that merit Mars.

*     *     *     *     *


Bright Star

(a dancing ditty)

Touch close, hold fast

Tight choir, short cast

Breath high, breath long

Sigh bright, sigh strong

Sing song, cry call

Lift high, stand tall

Dance wide, leap sky

Twirl star, whirl fly

Shine bright, Shine far

Sky light, sky star

Sing song, sing sky

Dance long, dance fly