You Went A-Courtin'

You Went A-Courtin'

We were no blank canvas selected by a soul.
Ask your tarot reader. She will read from your
book of days, tell you that your actions were
apportioned to a family line. Your soul choose this.

'Tis your soul that is marked by societies
that pursue pleasure and their sum is in
presentation of ritual. Skills
that good prostitutes learn early.

It was an amorous looking-glass
you went a courtin' to fright the souls
of fearful adversaries.


A stick of nicotine may be displayed.
Its plumbed paper with golden tip beckoning
a treat that compliments the sup. Whiskey
served in crystal ting-a-linging its age

like when a tea spoon flicks off the lip
of grandma's best china cup. The sound
depicts a ritual treat of
cottage gardens and afternoon tea.

It was an amorous looking-glass
you went a courtin' to fright the souls
of fearful adversaries.

For there was holiness in ritual. It was
alcohol that Christ used. Wine into blood
not mother's milk into blood. Ingesting
alcohol was serious business,

but which of us was aware of ritual,
as we faced into our first with the
innocence of the foolhardy or the brave.
And it's strangers that sit in judgment

never those who love us or who are
unfortunate (maybe) to be loved
by us. Isn't it only right that one should
protect oneself when imbibing?

It was an amorous looking-glass
you went a courtin' to fright the souls
of fearful adversaries.

You spent time's energy (mine) killing time,
for it was time that was your enemy.
Time you wanted to escape, as it dragged.
On and on and on it went until you,

the element, started to decay,
for energy is lost only to the
element never the composite when
one's position is assigned for convenience.

But damn it! physics had no say. For when you
choose to trap your bad in spirit optics you
went a courtin' andtime lost; but who won?

©-2007-MLF

Camping Trip - 1976

The mini van that took us on camping trips
to Rossnowlagh had no hand-brake, so
we took along a cement block, which
we placed behind the front seat to use
when we got to the top of that hill
in Ballyshannon. For Murphy's law
determined that our right of way was blocked
at the cross, at the top of the street
that climbed, that hill; it was then that the appointed
go-fer was called on to jump out to fix
the block behind the front wheel and as we
teetered on brink of destruction we'd discuss
the fact that it was here Mary Shelly's gran
and Bram Stoker's granda were born and
it was just as well that they never met up.