still diddling...
Lost Tribe of Israel.
Apple cider time,
red cheeks,
heaving pirate ships sail
The Cape of Good Hope -
fresh faced,
pimples hardly put to rest,
youthful artists drinking anything,
read Kerouac,
write important novellas,
act in avant garde plays
that attack the audience;
voices so loud
mothers hush from childhoods.
Young warriors compete
as if the Trojan War
is only days in;
feast on words,
drugs and ideas
like bees in spring’s bloom –
bright colours, scents,
kisses bruise lips or necks,
the future –
a blanket tossed casually
upon the wild grasses of lust.
Time, though,
is no feast,
it is an eraser.
Years distant
from that long haired,
bright–eyed lad -
do any of the others
stop and wonder,
smile secretly,
hide shining eyes from wife,
husband or child;
glad in a secret pool of their soul,
they dined those years
before camaraderie was lost
in the capricious sand’s of life?
for those interested.
http://www.writingforums.com/showthread.php?t=54418
