Bodies milling about aimlessly-
Seemingly, without purpose;
A lost tribe perhaps.
Whether cultural staple or consumer trap-
Could not be clear:
The Flies themselves, indifferent to this display,
Know all too well, this market place-
Be a meeting hall;
For the fringes of society.
Aug 4, 2013
Aug 4, 2013 at 7:06 PM UTC
When the leaves are green, then the birds will sing,
Each note carried upon a sunlit ray;
My heart cannot bear awaiting this scene.
New, vibrant color quells cold, bitter sting,
And rings the chime for a calm and softer day,
When the leaves are green, then the birds will sing.
A winter tale ends well, blue sky it'll bring,
And rare flowers that chase all care away;
My heart cannot bear awaiting this scene.
Robins in trees weave nests of withe and string
As the beat of their soft wings seem to say,
When the leaves are green, then the birds will sing.
Tulips dance in a tepid breeze in spring,
Crimson petals spreading, though not to stay;
My heart cannot bear awaiting this scene.
Bid adieu to steel-gray skies forbidding
Nature's gifts and tranquility, in May-
When the leaves are green, then the birds will sing;
My heart cannot bear awaiting this scene.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
Determined petals
Pierce the snow,
Refusing to wait.
Shades of violet,
Red, then yellow;
Mocking folded crepe paper,
On white marble floors
Advancing to overtake the scene;
An insurgent force,
So lithe, so pure.
Conquering in swaths,
With delicate bravado,
As if to challenge
The old mans icy grip,
While placating senses
Of the observant few;
Such a display
Of resistance,
To winter's rule
Now, slowly waning;
As the moments nigh,
But will return once again,
To defy a February's
Cruelty.
Feb 28, 2013
Feb 28, 2013 at 12:08 PM UTC
Cup of coffee, a cigarette,
The desire to describe a day;
Over these words, I wince and fret.
A clock chimes it's infinite way
Eroding hours till all lights gray.
Day of leisure, a life well set,
A wish the clock would slow or stay;
This loss of light, I'll soon regret.
The moments quickly slip away
Into the twilights dying splay.
Time spent fishing, from age be let,
And hope that many swim this bay;
Hours levied, against chance I'll bet.
The suns grand retreat seems to say
My stellar prize has gone astray.
Cup of coffee, a cigarette,
The sadness of a wasted day;
Over words, still I wince and fret.
As clocks chime their infinite way
Eroding hours till all lights gray.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 8:22 PM UTC