A Useful Process

I have all kinds of memories

I follow fourteen-hundred

Fellow postees on Tumblr

To take me there

Today it is the turn of Raul-Dufy

With his painting The Basin of Deauville

Which apparently was painted in 1935

Or eighty-six years ago

So quite a while before I was born

That one painting, courtesy of Wikipedia

Takes me to fifty more works of art

Such that I am in danger

Yes, I really am in danger

Of completely forgetting my first connection

Which I am pretty certain had something to do

With harbours and boats

Which reminds me, of glasses of chilled white wine

Let alone who I was with, in that inarticulate moment

 

Someone Else’s Suggestion

All is as all could ever be

Warm sun, cool breeze

Snowfall on the winter vacation

All is as all that we leave

Photographs, poems

Memories of the life once lived

Looking forwards, plans for another year

A chartered yacht

Swimming, snorkelling in warm, enthusing seas

What could go wrong 

What could go right

Where on the fence should I sit

All is as all could ever be

Warmer suns, softer, gentler breezes

Silent of any winter vacation

All is as all that we leave

Videos, audio recordings

UHD memories of the life once lived

Donald Hall

Flowers

With us

To be colourful

With us

To be youthful

Colours

Gifted to us

By the meadows

Youth

Gifted to us

By the generations

Purples, yellows, whites, blues and reds

Passions in deep waves

Sensations, of sweetest lust-filled scents

Teenage years and retirement years

Explorations of presents and futures

Entertainments of here and now and then

Flowers

With us, as with beauty

With us, as with life

A Useful Object

The kaleidoscopic effect

Created by strong sunlight

Passing through moving clouds

Before falling onto half-closed eyes

Grants a certain pathway

Into our very own randomness

That dark spring night

Or was it the end of winter

Not though in any way cold

Nor with any edge on time

Other than sometimes there would be

The warmth of the liquor

The light of the moon

The languor of the love

The eternal senselessness 

Of our presently being together

Yet senselessness only

From a new distance

From a meditation seat

In an opportunistic

Kaleidoscopic inducing garden

Actually senselessness 

Might better be read

As intensely sensual

Bare skin, twisted together fingers

Eyes and lips eagerly awaiting

Such that the notes

Of the perfumes

Of the sands and the oceans

Reach out for the lavender balm

Pressed fresh from today’s garden

Anticipation

It is true

There may be no one here

And, of course

I would be disappointed

Although an opportunity

To work alone

Yet let’s not call it work

Even if other readers might

Instead an opportunity

Which maybe has knocked once too often

Let us say a possibility

Even if the thesaurus offers us probability

Which might I say looks like an error

For me possibility is a good way off probability

And vice-versa, and yes, you are correct

It is becoming like work