Cobblestone paths encircle putting greens.
Inside granite goblets,
horses are riverboats for wrens.
Wimbledon standard courts
feature tennis royalty.
A cottage they’d said,
in contrast to the palace of Versailles maybe.
It’s tapestries are older than Hadrian’s wall.
The carpets make Persia’s finest
look like threadbare disasters.
Cinema size televisions
dominate palatial loungerooms.
But the people are as heartwarming as algorithms.
The ramshackle servants quarters,
are discretely hidden in a bird attractant garden.
Smoke wafts from an ancient chimney.
A homemade chess set
waits patiently for its creators.
Dolphins search butterfly formations,
for fleeting novels.
Herbivorous jaguars roar the blues.
Effervescent scorpions mime the beat.
From where, do their delicate rhythms emanate?
The valley of a trillion spectrums dominates the horizon.
Its pulsating crystal forests reflect highland lakes.
Mountainous cactuses sprout from opalescent beaches.
Stars roam crevasses like lost pigeons.
In a cathedral cave,
Graham H Goal Posts Smith,
the high priest of the Obscure Poets Club,
the Terrestrial Scuba Diver himself,
the original Mr Ultra Cool, Ice Cold,
points to a spherical piano.
It hovers like the death star renovated by hippies.
“Play it with your mind Azalea” he urges.
May your regrets evaporate
beneath our brilliant star
and the reign of achievement return.
your old self vanishes,
every night you die a greater death
and arise anew.
A once crippling course
is your motivating force;
regret is beautiful,
it is clay of greatness.
Then a different name
for ancient rivers
and a new current to tame.
Evelyn’s eighteenth century marble cottage
adorns the last quarter acre block
in the latest city to emulate Manhattan.
The urge to launch this crème de la crème
of curvaceous gems
on to a four poster bed as elegant as she,
can be as overwhelming as an avalanche.
Evelyn possesses the power
to preoccupy her admirers with nobler passions.
It is said, her dazzling array of brush strokes
can capture your spirit on canvas,
that there’s something more exhilarating
about watching her paint
than witnessing the theatrical grandeur
of her forays into burlesque.
If you wish to see her graceful figure
unencumbered by layers of satin,
being a world renowned sculptor
is more advantageous than wealth.
If a corporate emperor,
with the artistic prowess
of a methamphetamine crazed jackal,
wishes to witness such a spectacle,
funding a children’s hospital for a generation
isn’t guaranteed to win the bidding.
Evelyn is glorified in birdsong.
Blue Tongues seek refuge in her hollows.
Banjo frogs frolic in her waterfall fed ponds.
I’m yet to buzz the intercom
and set foot inside her sanctuary.
The sound of her soul drifts into the park,
from a grand piano.