The Cane Harvest Balltake a bobbin to Old Planters Creekfind me a maiden who's gentle and sweetgive her the bobbin and ask her to dinewith me and my court in cane harvest timelikely she'll blush and demursaying she isn't the fairest girllisten then tell her she's sadly mistakenfor the prince finds you meet for such an occasionhow will I appear in rags such as theseshe'll say with a sigh, like wind in the treescomfort her worries with a bright reassurancethat the finest threads shall be her luxurianceo go to her swiftly, I pray, I insistbefore the clock strikes ten or I'll missthe chance to behold the maiden most fairin this or any land neath' the airbring her in a coach drawneight-in-handtrimmed with gold-leafand lacquered with blackrun now, I say...
The Bitter Fruit of FollyLike ashes, regret stains the soul.
Safe and SoundSleep tight little one, dream deep.
Antique RedSometimes we see the powerThat resides in the colors of the stormRemembering the eveningsSo long agoWatching the sunset flood the skyTime doesn't run downIt gains speedTill clouds race byChasing their shadowsAcross the plainsRunning through the dewDeep within the orchardBlades of grassSticking to bare feetApples hard shiningIn antique redScreen door slamsOn another Saturday nightFront porch dreamingAs the grandparents laughterEncircles our very souls...
Voix de la MerSeashelllying on the sandan empty palaceof light and soundSvelte seraphs'neath the emerald breakersdwellsighing Neptune's voicein yonder shellechos o'er the seasfor all eternity
Camera GirlClick. Click. Click.Snaps the shutter on her lonely parallelTo the jetstreamFlowing by herThrough herShe is in its midst and yetAlone.Smile for meWon't you?Only a moment of graceUntil we're gone.
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