short poem


awaken Sunday, there are still bells
there are still bees to labour sell
and soon the morning sun will rise
to warm the eager butterflies

awaken Sunday, beyond your peels
my restless mind will seek to yield
its cares into the blackbird’s call
and lose itself as petals fall

awaken Sunday, where hides the rest
the promise of contentment blessed
it’s hidden not, lest one be blind
it speaks its calm upon the wind.

The Pomegranate Promise

that she by chance ate Hades fruit
summer has it’s ending nigh
the forest birds can sense the blue
will change to silvered skies
and those flowers which spiced the land
will soon be black decay
Demeter’s grief is soon at hand
her loved one must away
and as she weeps for August’s end
her tears are godly offerings
which promise that the season’s change
and Persephone will herald Spring