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I crave the dusty country roads,
But even more I crave a rose’s petals,
For when it softly whispers in the wind
The golden velvet of its blooms
Brings wistful looks into my rooms.
I fancy water’s rolling shores,
But what I fancy best of all
Is watching blithe summer blossoms
Kissing a lilac’s intoxicating tassels.
I yearn for lonely mountain peaks
Yet, more I yearn for Poppy’s sweet—
That enchanted world of prose
That takes away my crimped rose.
I wish for meadows with a brook,
But even more I wish for thoughtful pansies,
When in a larky summer day
I gather colours to be gay.
I want chirruping nightingales
And ancient trees on avenues,
But what I want indeed the most
Are coloured shades for dreams to host.


There, where the eagle soars,
And the birds meet,
Where the wind roars,
And the clouds speak!
There, where the mountains reach,
And the dreams quit
Many a times I’ve been
Without a thought to win.
What is beyond the vastness?
And what is below?
If answer I would have,
There wouldn’t be the sweetness
Of all the wine I had,
And all the tears shed.


I know a man,
A viper in disguise.
It’s not his looks
His heart betrays,
But rather all the foul nooks
His mouth displays.
An hour’s time
That’s all you need—
Two if you’re dense—
To learn his ways
And all the ‘guised pretence.
This miserable creature
You’ll never want to meet,
For poisoned thoughts
Are covered to be sweet,
And you will know he fought
To cover well his tripping feet.


No longer fitting the master.
While the wet bricks at the corner
Shed tears by the dormer.
Blown by the wind
The window frames sway.
Wood breaks from its kind,
Decayed on the porch’s way.
In patches green mosses cover
The house’s guardian lions,
And nothing desires to bother
The ageing begun on the irons.
Vines grab at the railing
Old paints dreary walls cover
And no one to hear the wailing
The doorknob’s unable to smother.


I saw a butterfly flying in the wind.
And then another, and another
Over the Red Poppies, and the sparkling golden fields.
“Where do you go butterfly, and why so high?”
“Why shouldn’t I, little girl,
When the sky is so high
And its hue
A sweet blue?
All I want is to fly and fly.”
“But I used to fly with you,
When we both were rare dew.
What has happened, butterfly?
You have left me down below
To become completely mellow
And converse with lower fellow!”
“You forget my little girl,
When the wind has taken you,
You forget your joy and laughter,
When you met and smelt the Matter.
It was then, when you refused
To come back and become fused.
Whether Friday or Today,”
Whether Sunday or another day,
You have made your choice
And can no longer BE any day.


By some railway tracks,
A little Barista jokes cracks.
While his busy hands
Put muffins on trays,
Customers look with dismay
At the wide food array.
But what’s part of the Barista’s day—
Lattes and Cappuccinos,
Sweet Chai tea and Mochaccinos—
They all want, if they may.
The Barista seems shy,
And just murmurs his reply.
But when the crowds maroon the shop,
Ruefully on a chair he sags.
Alas, a muse enters the shop,
To perk the Barista up.
A smile she gives,
And his song she sings:
“Oh, I love coffee, I love tea
What a chap the Barista’d be!”
Happily the Barista turns around:
“Miss, what shall it be?
Coffee or tea?
I can also offer thee
The quickest cappuccino and biscotti free.”
“Oh, I’d love a tea please.”
“Miss, you are my muse,
And I love thee.
As long as you can use
A coffee, or tea
You will always charm me.
By the way, may name is Sunny Lee
And I too can use
A sip of tea.”


I have a little dream
To find a golden stream
That washes
The pain and fear away.
Oh, that I could
Oh, that I would
Become more fey
About the fate’s way.
I have a little wish
To find an orange dish
To gather in it
All the sick writhe.
Oh, that I could
Oh, that I would
Lead a tango, or sway
My plight away.
In colour therapy orange cleanses the malignancy of any form from the body; orange is also the colour that drives away depression and sadness.


I thought of the Morning Flower
Opening for the Mighty Sun.
I thought of the passing hour
Moving for the Godly plan.
It made some sense,
I must confess,
But life is too intense
To press
The infinite
Into a tidy mess.
Open the universe,
Let loose the quest!


I am roaming forever in the cold doom
Often staggering
Often swaying
Forever hearing the laughter of the dark loon.
Forward I go by the cool moon
Often guided
Often ginned
Never a gamin
But I’ll be gone from this sweet hell soon.


A part of me is there, in the sun
A smile and a giggle for the fun.
But who is here, looking up and down
Counting every piece of moving crown?
The Judge or the Judged at best,
Concerned with the truth in every quest!?
The balance is not broken—but it is!
When life is hard, I have to say please.
There is a day when laughter stops,
A tear comes; it really pops.
But who am I to stay and sulk!?
Perhaps a day will come so full of bliss that I’ll sink.
What’s worth is cheerful sounds;
What’s not is time measured by the pounds.


I gaze
Pleasant landscape
Infinite ocean of green, blue tints
Delicately touching the shore of hints.
I admire
Blue sky
Maze of fine, yellow sand
Swiftly moving away from my hand.


Flung to the water
Flung to the sea
I can not wonder
I can not see.
The bird is floating,
The bird is free.
It can be hither
It can be thither
For it is not me.


At point still
Bubbling with hope
And fears
I stood.
Not in despair,
Or rejoicing,
But expectantly calm
Like a deer.
I am here
But where is God,
The dear?

Adriana Rodica Orr (b.Bucharest 12.10.1963 – d.Edmonton 06.04.2015)    5/13/2015


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