rhymin’

The Flowers Know

the trains can’t break the backs
of the wildflowers on the tracks
they bend, they sway
but seldom cry
I cannot even wonder why
they tolerate our haste
this unrelenting pace
of existence we force the world
to undertake.

Perhaps because they know
our wasted years will pass
and they in time unmeasured
with unbowed heads in legion
will make these tracks their own.

Voices

Each thought
has a voice
an accent
all its own,
especially alone,
some stutter
with apparent insecurity
yet reveal
a truth profound
if one takes the time
to listen well,
to ponder that they tell,
while another
strong and loud
begins to falter
as it evidences
a lack of reason
despite its will to be
heard primarily,
there are thoughts too
those almost silent
merely a hum it seems
a nod or shake
of the head
communicating
not so much
with flowered
verbosity or
colourful prose,
but with a glance of
involuntary pupils,
wayward crooked smiles,
a blush’s dance,
in unguarded moments
above all others
these thoughts unheard,
undiscovered
speak volumes.

The Reading

speak soft my verse
for in whispers was it writ,
each breath a tone infers
that which follows it,
speak whole each silent pause
carved between the words,
as that not spoken in my cause
also my thoughts records.

speak softly all my verse
each syllable to its own breath
until the final lines disperse
and is but nothing of me left.

Likes (my beauty pageant answers #1) unfinished

I like cats
and I like dogs
I dig hallucinogenic
frogs
I like sparrows
and I like hawks
I listen to parrots
when they trash talk
I like bugs
what scamper by
fish in ponds
larks on high
I dig the lambs
and lions too
lazy sharks
and whales of blue
I like gibbons’
funky struts
and baboons
with their painted butts
I like bees
that buzz about
but people?

I could do without.

I Face The West

The green isle sang a melody
as on clouds I floated free
and brought to me a memory
ancient yet not me
verdant dreams of tribal home
and he that I would be

the warrior, the troubadour
a prince of devout grace
with a beggarman’s philosophy
a drunken priest’s lost faith
and as I passed above all time
I gained all sense of place

my purpose then now plain to me
from on these heaven’s highs
all truth and beauty’s delicate
lights dance before my eyes
and without fear I face the west
as to my rest I fly.