Morn‘ that feels like

A ride on undulated

Cushions of land:

Remarks of people’s

Bad deeds

Sting like thistle on the

Poet’s being/

Warm water splashed on

The face

Will dilute bad news

Soften-up the acceptance


Of new world slavery.

But/ as soon as he places

The Moroccan-green tea

Into the stl/stl sieve insert

Into the Pyrex glass-teapot

Made in China/

The pouring ritual of hot water

Brings out the first great scents

He is keen to smell above all/

While the poet types his journal

The sulphuric green tea dissipates

Into the pot/

Colouring the water in ongoing

Hues of amber colour blends.

His taste buds rise to welcome

The first tangy taste of the

Golden brew.

Now then/ he muses / morning

Has arrived finally in style/

Musing with cups of /the verde


Then some more typing

And a look at his latest artwork

To be framed and hung in their

Living area/ but an input for the

Coloured passe-partout by his

Spouse of green beginnings

Who’ll choose.

ART: CUSHION for his soul.



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