In love with love,

Rid me of all the pessimism,

out with the offensive.

Splendor in a bough, miracles abound.

An exquisite craftsman’s harangue.

In every smile the Tao,

The balance of Yin and Yang.

I am in love, with the elegance

Of love.

Those wounds, agony-filled alleyways,

I leave behind.

Rather myself entwine,

With that flowering cherry blossom,

Honeysuckle, Larkspurs, and Lavender.

Be a Lily, a Lotus,

Gaze up to the blue, a Petunia,

Perfumed, beauteous Begonia.

I am in love with the loveliness

of love.

That naked want, the lust of the night,

Both now – bestower & subject.

With elixir mystique bedecked.

A province, familiar yet unfamiliar,

Serpentine, sinewy,

Smoldering, torching away borders,

I am in love with the passion

of love.





The Crockpot

I am materialistic, I am eager,

I do not any person beleaguer.

Leisurely, but not a chinwag –

Some might say, a windbag.


At first, my identity I had to lose,

Pressure, steam,

some blanching, some braising,

With moisture, upon me wrought,

Then were they, one after another

by me, crossed.


Slow and steady wins the race,

You may fall behind, the end never in sight.

Said a brilliant cook.

You will sizzle, you will bake,

You will every opportunity, undertake.

You will soup, you will glaze,

You will honey-coated meatballs make.


Cheesy, or Balsamic,

For the heart, a forever tonic.

An answer to the world’s speed,

You will every palate feed,

Be greedy, be tonight’s roast.

Be desirous, be what you will,

But forget not, the signals, the consistent pace,

Yes, slow and steady always wins the race.

Christened the Crockpot,

Triumph as the Pot among Pots.