G. Newton V. Chance

Let's begin by recalling
the faceless ones
from the mist of our morning.
The faceless ones are grimacing,
...

I would paint you, a picture-perfect portrait,
Subtle hues, every pigment from my palette,
Your animated eyes, slightly upturned nose,
Framed by garish landscape, coloured like Van Gogh's:
...

I love you with the fatal
fascination of the night-moth
to the flicker of the flame.
...

I have felt the weight,
The heat, the hurt, the hate,
The venom of vertical violence;
Heard the horizontal lines of lies,
...

Remember when this heart, an envelope,
Forlorn, lonely letter, lay unopened and unread;
And you, beautiful ballad, you a song whose name,
Dearest One, I knew from the first exquisite note.
...

See the hours scurry
like an orgy
of time lapse photography
or the credits of a movie
...

Under a shady samaan tree,
A bluebird sang this song to me;
That love is nothing but a worm
To hold and squeeze until it squirms,
...

I would melt the snow for you, my love,
Into icy rivulets and streams;
Then warm them into running rivers,
Rapid enough to take you from my dreams
...

Water, cooling water, sweeter centre,
Earth's core of molten sugar,
Pink pulp with oozing lava of life,
In its cool ambivalence never quite
...

(The power of bonsai is in its ability to portray the utmost beauty of nature. Saburo Kato)

Bent, gnarled and twisted, truncated
Like a haiku. So much beauty
...

Coconut stems, some diagonal, stand
Stark ‘gainst shifting gray and white of blue sky,
Hurt feelings, shaped and misshapen by wind
With rain, harsh sun and storm, nature's every
...

Jousting cries and cat-squalls of joyful tournament
Revealing feral, feline bites, sweet throes, through rows
Of shadobeni, and corn, and then the sudden hush;
...

What ails the age, that man to beast must turn;
At this late stage, the twenty first century,
The more we teach, the less we seem to learn
Of sincere love to ease the misery.
...

My love, there is no winter,
here,
in the suburbs of my heart;
the house wrens never leave
...

The caterpillar never dies.
It blossoms into a flower-
Worshipping butterfly and flies,
And flutters,
...

Ah sweet delight, that I should have you here;
Outside the rain, inside glasses of wine,
Well aged and chilled, yet warm, with you so near.
The radio plays soft violins divine,
...

Walk with me, oh moon;
let us count the tombstones,
excavate the young bones,
piled on young bones,
...

And should I pluck your rose...
raise it to my nose,
ever so tenderly,
inhale the fragrance
...

In the village, where everyone knew everyone,
Shared common business of pasture and garden
And pirogues daily, with the climbing sun,
Challenged ocean and aloof horizon
...

Grant me an ego, Lord, large as an orchid seed;
Humble me, let me wallow in humility.
With modesty, let me blossom like the lily,
Singing praises to the sun from a trampled field.
...