Artist's bicycles.




Threw the paint at the wall,
didn't eat,
genius did call,
the sister with the black and white pebbles,
arranging sand into a beautiful mosque,
at what cost?
charming love.

Vincent, we gave it away,
as if some day,
this madness could be for all,
Les Artistes Majesty,
our gentle call.

Take this stick by the sea shore,

A perfect circle,
fifty years on,
all trace was lost,
for she knew,
the sand flies never count the cost.

And the blind girl,
such beauty and humility,
the brightness in the slum,
at what cost?

Equality or death?
carry on.


We hear you Wilfred that is why I am crying,
with love,
for I woke in the morning,
that was the colour of my brother,
all is dove,
for those black silk gloves,
are the beauty and the green of us all.

And the churchyard at Cookham,
sunbathing naked with a Quaker veteran,
who spent five years in no mans land,
with a red cross bag
and found his way back,
to the garden.


The carnival begins,
we are healed by it all,
such is equality,
dancing free,
at the salsa ball.

With Mary,
I saw her once,
fifteen in Saint John's uniform,
always summers faeries do well,
for we are heaven,
sweet new born.

~