In Portugal by Duoro vines
we climbed in such heat of the day
dust rose as we trudged between signs
and she wished she was faraway.
My burden of love for Port wines
she didn’t share and hike outweigh.
And in shade of a tree of figs
on stone was one dried! I danced jigs.
Who’s to know how
and this wrinkles my brow
where the line lies
and it, the truth shies
too much to process
no room to touch bases
so I toe the work line,
in the end, me, so shine
Page one of honouring your ties familial
is love true and nurturing, uncensorial.
Then, it follows, the TV is off prandial
to learn each other by way oratorial.
There will be history and baggage vitriol:
that’s revealed in time hubby and uxorial.
Children cannot be mere clones accessorial
or they’ll die unknowing, unreal out mondial.
Let them fight, make mistakes so controversial
riding both order and chaos mercurial.
all those connections that touch
us where we feel true.
Introduction from Poitou (11.1)
Four haiku for you
may you laughingly accrue
knowledge déjà vu.
A bright April day not quite Helvetic (21.17)
Spring air diaphragmatic;
Latinate Mood Contaminate (30.13)
till your eyebrows machinate.
I must urinate.
Ode to the Norwegian, Edvard Grieg (18.5)
A peerless tone league
and orchestral folk blitzkrieg
renege my intrigue.