we’re all looking for that sweet spot
the place it all comes together
the corner of the cosmos
where the stars align
The days of magick now are dead,
the daughters of Cerridwen gone
to Avalon, the apple isle
I was greeted by the sight
of a motley band of peasants –
men, women, children –
some playing instruments
now before the mirror in the dark
the angle of moonlight slants
just shy of where i stand
My mother used to say train whistles sang of sadness,
but to me they always meant adventure.
My attic is a mess; I am a jackdaw,
a hoarder of everything
I have picked up along the roadside.
We had an arrangement,
unspoken though it was.
M’name’s Alice Keyes.
I had two other names
We look at the past over our shoulders,
smiling and sighing for the dear old days gone by.
Life was cleaner, we think, less cluttered, simpler, more authentic.
He travels, my husband – who is a great lord,
respected and feared if not loved by all –
here and there and I know not where
If you’re reading this, for sure
you’ll be knowing my husband Peter,
the one they call the pumpkin eater.
my natural habitat is not
those tropics where i lived
transplanted but not rooted
is a lousy poem
blotted with tears
i say time is an eraser
tonight I went down
to the spanish restaurant
oh not for the food
i hate to eat alone
classic harbinger of spring
after all was done and spent
the madness faded with the charm
i had to give you back