It was a pleasant spring day in Florida and the flowers were blooming. On a big street lived a teacher called Mrs. Lily. Mrs Lily was a kind teacher and she worked at a school close to her house. Her house was very nice and had two floors and she had a pet dog 🐶 called Snowy. She was pretty rich but she was kind hearted and wasn’t arrogant at all. She also had a job as an explorer over summer vacation, last year she had found an ancient gem that belonged to a native tribe for years. This year she was looking forward to summer vacation because the students were given a project and they would not stop talking about it 

Sorted Desire

How do we sort desire? 

This one is proper, the other, shallow.

This goes into the blue box of pursuit, 

that one into the red one of next week, 

these go into the pale pink box of never go there

There must be rooms full of unfulfilled desires 

of various women somewhere  

on our planet 

breathing in nicotine fumes of 

Memories soaked in regret

and boatfuls of children’s winged desires

Of spaceman spiffs atop Attenborough’s 

Predator cats deep inside a sphinx’s hollow

Men must have their trains and buses full too

Things that they once desired, withered 

In the vacuousness of repition and

Cookie cut travel maps, hotels, Malls, 

Even the ocean Carps and northern lights

Not as enticing as those travel photographs 

And what happened to tiny desires fulfilled?

A kiss from behind, feet lifted off the ground 

In faint, dizzy aftermath of slow lovemaking

Do they then fall off the face of earth and float 

Around like stars, expanding into nothingness 

Or do they float on unseen waves captured 

Aeons later by men in search of desire?

To die again

To love and fail and to love again, is that not the triumph of the spirit?

And yet we speak of children, wars and books 

as though the world is made up 

Of naked waters off unsanded shores 

Together four arms bring into this earth

A space that has been carved in heaven

And yet we speak of jobs, green papers, losses and gains.

When he was born, he must have foreseen

That if he grows up, he would die

And so cupid remained this dear dwarf on hoary walls 

While love failed again and again, 

To come out into real life from frescos, stardust, memories and lust.

And yet, somehow,

It is of wars we speak 

when we speak of courage

not of the insatiable desire 

to die. Yet again