He is life,
A great, mystical tree,
Symbolic in nature,
Eternally free.
She is root,
Hidden, deep below,
With a foundation enduring,
She is a mystery to know.
Combined is the essence of Him.
Revealed is the depth of love Divine,
Captured, perfectly, over a history of time.
Good and bad,
Back to their own identity.
As it was in the garden,
The One tree of serenity.

Alice in Wonderland is a popular much-read fable

A novel, written in 1865 about a seven-year-old girl

One maniacal scene is a tea party with a large table

Some misfits seated sipping tea in the underworld

Who came up with the idea to name the girl Alice?

Does her name symbolize the innocence of a child?

Although she was curiously devoid of guile or malice

There’s hate, violence, and cruelty wantonly profiled

A story of schizophrenic behavior full of poppycock

Supposedly interpreted from a child’s point of view

We perceive sweet Alice as the new kid on the block

They are receptive, and Wonderland is a pass-through

Abused birds, a drug-addicted larva, and a fast-talking rabbit

The oddest of human-acting creatures one could ever imagine

Queen of Hearts, obsessed with beheadings, an annoying habit

Reveals her sociopathic behavior, mental state, and lack of decorum

The novel Alice in Wonderland’s set of rules is hard to expound

Alice is the heroine in the earth’s underbelly among deviants

That the adventure unfolds in the controversial underground

Exposing a child to twisted behavior is ludicrous and militant

Willow by the Bay (For beautiful, Lucy, lost to breast cancer) by D.B. Coulson 

Once upon a glorious day in the deepest part of Spring, I, Mother Earth, gave birth to a precious, tiny thing.

Upon the banks of the gentle river flowing the young willow grew, and I, well knowing, began with all my heart to sing. 

The slender beauty of my daughter with grace and charm as she grew taller, brightened each day in the world I love.

She danced and played through so many years, as my heart filled with love, my eyes with tears, as my lovely willow danced with the wind above. 

“Do you always churn, leap and travel, as a mystery to unravel?” She asked of the river one day.

“Oh yes, Ms. Willow, I must keep moving. my gentle sounds I hope are soothing to you, Ms. Willow, so graceful, above the bay.” 

“Ms. Willow, I wish to let you know that as I gently toss and flow I tell of the stately willow by the bay.

From forests deep, to raging rivers, the song I simply must deliver is of the lovely willow by the bay.” 

My modest Willow seemed so flattered, again my heart pitter pattered at these words spoken to her by the river that day.

Her gentle, sweet, flowing motion in the wind purveyed the notion of the most stately creature by the bay. 

I do my best to be a mother to tend to and try to hover to keep my children out of harm’s way. But alas the soulless scourge of night brings horrid storms and vengeful blight and spreads its wrath in a vile and cunning way.

Many times, a child of life is victim to this vengeful strife and so, the fate of my willow by the bay.

The scorn unleashed by this devil was so dire and at such a level my strong but gentle willow was taken from the bay.

 The river smashed its raging tears with thunder and loathsome fear as it roared through the forest and the bay.

My forest creatures felt the darkness brought by this devil, so vile and heartless, who takes the most beautiful of life away.

 The shining light has left the forest and yet the river moves before us, flowing for yet another day.

Through heat of summer to deep December the thought of her shall greatly linger as our cherished thoughts begin to play.                

 Gracefully, always moving with a style so svelte and soothing as she flowed through life from day to day.

The rivers flow seems never ending yet the dream my mind keeps sending is of the beautiful willow by the bay.

My loving and cherished willow by the bay.

 d.b. coulson     (May of 1999)

My window looks at a fairy tree.

Its branches bend and twist.

Its leaves are whispering with glee,

Its hоllow makes a whistle.

A little river under the tree

Is running through the fog.

And a marvelous song amazes me

Performed by a tiny frog.

IN THE POEM THERE IS THE SOUL

I love the poem and the rhymes

anyone who knows how to write beautifully

all poets and their poems

all the verses in the poem are worded

all the love poured into them.

The one who knows how to write a verse

his soul breathes with love

he knows to love from the bottom of his soul,

and the one who knows how to read, to listen

he knows well that in the poem there is the soul.

The one who does not have a soul, he can't,

doesn't know, he is not able to understand

the poem and its rhyme, that soul in the verse.

The one doesn't know either to kiss or to love,

he only knows how to inflict pain.

Each poet is a special character

he is the owner of sincere love.

He writes a poem in the air with his soul,

with the verses embraces tenderly and kindly

and sends messages boldly and quietly.

If each of us knows

to awaken in himself the poet of one

it would be better for everyone in the world

everyone would live life with a poem

they would never hate anyone.

I WISH TO BE A BIRD

I wish often to have wings

to be free as a bird

to fly somewhere far, far away

that I bathe in the clouds for a long time

before landing in various fields

before I fall so I crash.

There are borders to everyone

but not for birds, especially migratory birds.

Wherever the bird wishes and goes

its wings are a symbol of freedom.

And bird feathers long for the flight

so the bird travels the world.

It knows well that on earth

many of them are its danger

that's why it flies and flies.

The bird is happy only while flying

either alone or with a flock.

It doesn’t matter if it’s winter or summer

all it cares about is flying.

That's why I would be a bird

that there are no limits for me,

to enjoy freedom, to be high up

that I'm not within reach to those down

who would catch and break me.

I dream this often and I forget

that I have no wings, that I'm not a bird,

that I'm an ordinary man nailed to the ground

and that is why I flee to my dreams and

fantasize to my heart's content.

When I finally wake up,

when a new day appears in front of my eyes

I know that I have no wings,

that in my heart I am a traveler

but I need someone else to be my companion.

HABIT

You get used to breathing as soon as you're born,

you get used to your mother, your father...

You get used to being loved and you love,

and later you pray for a handful of attention,

for a sweet look and nothing more.

Out of habit, almost every morning, 

that no one hears, you suffer and pray:

Stop by sometimes in the days of youth

surprise me and love me as tenderly as ever,

look at me caress at least sometimes!

Let this love become a habit

this morning, today, and tomorrow

get used to it, loneliness is both mine and yours

we have not been one for a long time

and we could be together again!

My poem the restaurant buffoon English version https://youtu.be/3RYbGxo_354

مَطْعَمُ بَافُونْ

وَ سُكَّرًا يَبِيعُنِي بِيَاسَمِينِ الْكَلِمَاتِ وَ قَلْبُهُ فِي حَلْقِهِ فَسْفَاسُ

وَ نَادِلَاتٌ عَادِيَاتٌ لِكُلِّ دَاعٍ وَ فَطِيرَةُ الْبٍيتْزَا بَهَارُهَا قُلْقَاسُ

هًذَا طِحَالٌ بِالشُكُلَاطَةِ مَخْبُوزٌ وَ بَسْكَوِيتٌ حَشْوُهُ بَانْكِرِيَاسُ

كُلُّ الْأَطْبَاقِ تَذَوَّقْتُ هُنَا إِلَّا هَذَا صَنَعَتْهُ أَضُنُّهَا الْهُونْدُورَاسُ

وَ لِي فَمٌ عَلَى مِصْراَعَيْهِ وَ خُشَامٌ يَشْرَبَانٍ الْعَصِيرَ فِنْطَاسُ

غَدَوْتُ شُحَيْمَاناً وَ بَاعَةُ الشَّحْمِ مَعْطَبَةٌ لِجَمْعِ الْمَالِ أَحْلَاسُ

حَوَارِيَّاتٌ يَتَغَامَزْنَ بِطَانَةً بُهْلُولٌ المَطْعَمِ ذُو بَطْنٍ وَ سَمِينْ

خَفَافِيشُ المَتَاجِرِ لِلْدَمِّ شَارِبَةً مَصَّاصَةً لِرَوَاتِبِ الْمَسَاكِينْ

رَأَيْتُ الْمَقاَهِيَ وَالْغَوَانِيَ بِالْمَالِ يَفِضْنَ وَجَيْبِيَ يَقْطُرُ الْأَنِينْ

وَ تَسْقُطُ شَوَارِبِي وَ بَعْدَهَا كِرْشِي وَ تَسّقُطُ أَوْرَاقُ الْيَاسَمِينْ

يَا مَطْعَمَ الْبَافُونِ هَجْرُكَ عَصَبْصَبُ لَعَمْرِي شَمَّةٌ مِنَ نِيكُوتِينْ

طَبِيبٌ مَغْنَاطِيسٍ بِلَيْلٍ وَ بِالنَّهَارِ آخَرُ يَقِيسُ أَعْدَادَ التَمَارِينْ

فِي لَيَالٍ ثَلَاثٍ كِيلُوغَرَامَاتٍ عَشْرًا شَحُمْتُ فِي كُلِّ لَيْلَةٍ

 ( ثَلَاثًا فَاصِلَ ثَلَاثٍ وَ ثَلَاثِينْ ثَلَاثٍ وَ ثَلَاثِينْ...)

My poem the restaurant buffoon English version

https://youtu.be/3RYbGxo_354

The restaurant's buffoon

Malodorous his heart, but he sells with jasmin words all the sugar to me;

Waitresses are running towards every fatty pizza order for thee;

This is a spleen stuffed with chocolate and that is a pancreas with honey;

Indeed I tried all dishes here except this one, made in honduras, oversea;

My open wide mouth and nose drink sweet juice, bowls of wee;

I became fat,  those sugar sellers are only slaves to the golden money;

Waitress whispers and laughs: "the buffoon has a gigantic belly" ;

The vampire apes are sucking poor's blood, are sucking my salary;

Their cup of cash runneth over and my cup is leaking bankruptcy;

They plucked my mustache, my belly is hanging over my knee;

Oh! Buffoon's restaurant ! Without your sweet addiction, I can't be;

Since I fell in love with you I have not slept, I've had magnetic therapy;

In three days' love I've had ten more kilos,  everyday

(Three Point thirty-three ,thirty-three, thirty-three, thirty-three, thirty-three…)

Remark: 3,3333333333...( weight increase will never end like the unstoppable decimals)

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