Wildlife incident

Two pigeons perched on the garden fence

confrontational face to face

jabbing each other with their beaks.

I assumed they were fighting for dominance

control perhaps of the garden space.

It looked quite painful on their cheeks.

But then one mounted on the other !

Oh, I see. Their pecking was necking.

Because I'm dead I have no rights but one

yet he that murdered me lives on

and, though in prison, still enjoys so much

of what life has to offer such

as comradeship and love of family

while my folk never will see me

again. They scan a void where howls of loss

reverberate but cannot cross.

Adaptable as people are, in time

his life will mould anew, his crime

not punished by the hell of galley slaves

now human rights cede much he craves

like decent food, gym, music books, TV -

none of which things can comfort me.

Absent, I am forgotten, my one right 

ignored while gradually his plight

gains sympathy for his release. Throughout

imprisonment he has no doubt

he will be free at last. My kin and I

have no such hope. He made me die

and yet enjoys some life which is not fair.

"Forgive" they say, which only means don't care.

I in eternity cannot forgive.

Common fairness says he shall not live.

Because I'm dead I have no rights but one

which is that execution must be done.

Quote unquote

"So love is nothing then?" she asked, sweet child.

"Not everywhere" he said "but yes with us"

"But why?" persisting, "That's not sensible"

"I don't know why" he answered. Then he smiled.

"The world's not sensible. You'll find out soon enough"

"But why accept something non-sensical?"

"It's nothing much" he joked, "Don't get so wild.

That love means nothing doesn't need such fuss.

You can't blame me. I'm not responsible"

He felt himself becoming somewhat riled.

"Ask some-one who knows tennis more than me"

Hello Beautiful.

You look wonderful this morning.

Such a radiant face.

Although your skirt is past its best.

Do you need a drink?

Though it comes with a warning.

This is your new home,

the perfect place to rest,

my gorgeous Phalaenopsis.

Ensemble Reza

A rain flecked day, somewhere to go for free,

a concert in a church hall, music and poetry.

There a quartet of classicly trained musicians

combines with aging, aspiring, amateur poets

to entertain an audiance of white haired daisies

sprinkling the lined lawnof green church chairs.

A lady violinist bends to her bow gymnastically

while her companion cradles her coital cello.

The male cellist switches to double bass

providing a rhythm the poems sadly lack.

Culture makes an effort to assert itself

while life passes by beyond the glass entry doors.

 Travel broadens the mind they used to say
but isn't it ironic that today

we travel more yet the more we roam

the more those foreign countries get like home.