gravy sweet gravy, by-product of roast
gravy not gravox, the bane of a good host

gravy on meat, and mash 'taters too
gravy on roast carrots, and all the peas through

gray sweet gravy, we love you so
gravy sweet gravy, i'll never say "whoa"

gravy my gravy, just soaked up in bread
gravy dear gravy, it's gone to my head

gravy from my roast, simmer the juices
gravy gets better, add master stock
gravy made thicker, a pinch of nice flour
gravy good gravy, just a tad o salt
gravy oh gravy, im ready for you


finnally, my poem on hands...

the human hand
stop and look at it now
one could think it was planned
just like our friend towel

a hand can do many things
and working together, can do many more
look at all the joy hands bring
and all the terror, for sure

a hand that strokes a loved one's cheek
can still be used to destroy and hurt

ok, so my gravy poem was better, but there you go.

Orange

You know what i have found? that my verse is bound, by that "orange" sound! And yet this is profound a poem of that round zesty fruit that's crowned the poet's nightmare fruit.

Sand

the white powdered sand beneath her, beneath me...
do you remember it well, my wounded? you minx.

the warm soft bed we made that night, around us...
did you savour it as i did, my beauty? you angel.

the dizzying intoxication of her purity, in me...
can i have it again some day, on my lips? you dream.

the ever rising level of rythmic movement, with her...
shall we ever let it be forgotten, my passion? you vision

the raw molten heat of our oneness, in her...
does the memory bring you some back, my fire? you warmth

the slowly nearing explosive end, was everywhere...
oh, do recall with me those rolling moments, my one? your two?

the subsiding tingling recouperation, drawn out...
the wonderment at the power of words, my friendship heart? you woman.

(ps: do you remember? *prrrrrowl* "you amaze me")

well... sand... sea shell dust it is....

thanks

Street

The street does not care
do we think it watches us with contepmt?
dont we see it is not there?
it is just a street

The street can not abuse us
the way others can abuse us, and the street

The street does not try to lead
that was the people who built it
and we led them, with our need
there's nobody here but us

The street leads from places
just as well as it goes to them, it has no preference

The street is not afraid of death
and it never thought of a god
even if they made it run through cess
the street never complains.

If I were a street, though, where would I lead from?

Still I would not be paved
Can I still have the trappings?
The facade that fools me too?

Perhaps cobblw stone
to make me feel special
with my decadent guests

Or soft sand and pebbles
stealing my style from the beach I visit
where the people have fun

I would lead to happy places
but also back to the drear
which in in most lives

I'd follow the noisy stream
which would tell me of its adventures
And Id tell myself I am happy not to move

I lead to a place, then back again
It is all a street can do
some pity me for this fact

But it is what ive learned to know
my place in the world i cannot choose
an ordinary thing personified.

Streets

Down the street
on the corner
I feel that heartbeat
of the place I left

Turn again and wander
finding heartbeats
that are a bit fonder
like that place I saw

The streets are quiet at nights
nobody wants to walk them
but nothing's out to give frights
they just fear finding the beat

Of that place we have all been
though we never wanted to go
that vile place we've all seen
where the only heartbeat... is your own