God forgive me, for I write of sinful things -
a true poetic hero, resting and dear to many imperfect-perfect hearts.
Wild flowers in bloom, and the herd of goats roam,
I sit under the cypress tree and dream -
Mosaic thoughts about the year 112 BC.
In the distance, the leaves grow a temper,
as north winds blow; a melancholy soul rises from the dead;
And he walked to the water, to see if his reflection came alive again too.
A romantic man, somewhat in vain, intoxicated by nature and its beauty.
Too amazed, I swigged from a bottle of turkish rose gin
And Kahlil Gibran's spirit started to speak,
"Love is fair when written in a sonnet, women in 1912 wore bonnets."
He studied my hair, not a curl to be found;
Fine, straight and stringy that got him real scared.
Unsure of what to say, I invited him on to my plaid picnic blanket;
Shared some gin and eggplant parmigiana tucked in a pita pocket.
Played rummy, comfortably on the mellow meadow -
In the middle of the day,
the mackerel sky seemed to be busy with Friday prayer.
The silence was exquisite, but a flying goldfish interrupted us,
And a beam of light, full of strength, took my ghostly friend without a care.
Peace, Love and Happiness