Summer in the City

As the mad sun makes blood boil into a stir,
Impatience becomes the glue
Sticking the stuck air.
 
Rain dreading souls long for moist,
Their change of tune
Cool haze the cooling of choice.
 
The chain gang ties shuffle in their droves,
Baking suits
In baking clothes.
 
Workers in hole of tarmac bleak,
Stirring in dust
Of cauldrons deep.
 
Town birds pick at discarded breads,
Blinded by glistening
Sweat lined heads.
 
Take me home
Back to the green
Away from this hellish, hell like scene.
Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

Bluest Moon Rare

While scratching cat claws at singing bell
I write these gentle words,
I have gentle
Most gentle words to tell.

With crows feet eyes, under my patch of bluest skies,
Bird branch trees, choired in threes,
Sing against
Singing sails breeze.

In this burning olive sun
I write these perfectly imperfect words of impractical scrawl,
With no cast of doubt
No shadows crawl.

Seas of scented coloured air
Fill my mind with grateful tear eyed thanks,
While my 
feet are warmed, warmed on darkened planks.

I have a thing of bluest moon rare,
I am deeply loved
A gift of once diamond found,
Is to be held and cherished
On this most thankful ground.

And I will love her until my mortal days have faded
And my crown of greys are bound,
A love like ours is forever
Forever till dust and ground.








Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.

To Hot To Sleep

Laying sticky

no breeze at all.

Beads of salt drop across pillows thread

can’t escape this heat

across this sodden bed.

Sheets turn wet with humid glue

heat weights down

to form sticky dew.

Memories breeze a touch of bliss

through windows gap

a cooling kiss.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Charlie Hasler.