It was jazzy June and green butterflies, filled the air with magic.
Then butterscotch days were long, until the purple sunset panic.
Sunny June, when music festivals, were staged in shady parks;
While in treetops purple martins, warbled their musical remarks.
Late springtime everywhere, and sandy beaches were crowded;
And it seemed such a long spell, since skies had been clouded!
In the dreamy season of youth, blossoms preened everywhere,
......
She
I'm waiting for the man I hope to wed.
I've never seen him - that's the funny part.
I promised I would wear a rose of red,
Pinned on my coat above my fluttered heart,
So that he'd know me - a precaution wise,
Because I wrote him I was twenty-three,
And Oh such heaps and heaps of silly lies. . .
So when we meet what will he think of me?
......
This was the way of it, don't you know --
Ryan was "wanted" for stealing sheep,
And never a trooper, high or low,
Could find him -- catch a weasel asleep!
Till Trooper Scott, from the Stockman's Ford --
A bushman, too, as I've heard them tell --
Chanced to find him drunk as a lord
Round at the Shadow of Death Hotel.
D'you know the place? It's a wayside inn,
A low grog-shanty -- a bushman trap,
......
ae
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The smell of incense was heavy
And guarded the dingy room well.
Time passed slowly like the stifling breath of Yuletide
They were hiding from — the two lovers of Venice —
A woman with dark, luxuriant hair
And a man with a running nose.
Scent-leaf from Africa
Roasted over the fireplace with a tangible fragrance.
A lone candle burned and crackled,
Its tallow dripping profusely with crusts of romance —
......
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Ah, spread it far and wide —
scripts, thoughts, and the legs at this dock.
Another leak, another cheap catharsis —
Plick, plick,
I undress my stanzas.
You want a little romance?
Here: my metaphors moan,
breasts of adjective heaving,
tight enjambment you can unzip.
......
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She’s one lonely soul with occasional
Nosebleed, all from the sea-salt of distant
Waves, charmed to weariness by breezes powerful enough
To unfurl umbrellas rolled behind Grandfather’s clock.
She combs her lofty hair seawards, with particles, flimsy and
Delicately grey, tiny and microscopic, storming the sea in their looseness.
She hopes to borrow the strength of the waves
And attract her wayward husband’s lost attention imprisoned
By the west and south seas.
Her letters, before they reach him on the fragrant sails
......