A crack in the plastic cup
I run my fingers through
A Thumb-full of little cuts
I run my fingers through
worn-out bandaids
Can hardly contain it
Little reddish stains on
The white cotton fabric

For best results,
apply the bandage
to clean, dry, skin
(the cup was full of water)

Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?

Making use of time is very crutial;
Capturing moments, living the feelings
I'll wait for my time to succeed and stay happy.

The sun was dawning on her shoulders
but her spine, worn
did not feel the burn

Her tears dripped into the
sink
into the sponge
and the soap (lemongrass)
burned bruised hands
with the sting of lost hope

But Maria was  a wish
amid a crowd of stars
and those blissful days of
yore
beyond the shore
Were not as far

And after thinking for a while
she nodded with a smile
and the sun faded away
but she felt warm inside

her house.

Summer days and heatwaves
Sweat pouring down our skin
Working hard no time to rest
From the time the day begins.

Bailing hay without a shade
Not a single cloud insight
Gathering all the barely corn
We work until the night.

we have a little hideaway
A place down in the vale
Its where we drink some scrumpy
Along with beer and ale.

We while away  an hour or more
Depending on how we feel
We rest and take it easy
No sound from the tractors wheel.

Now tomorrow is another day
Our work load it will keep
We may be striming hedge grows
Or we may be shearing sheep.

But we really are not bothered
We've been farmers far too long
We carry out our dutys
And sometimes with a song.

Our lives are hard but simple
We are living the country life
Away from the city and the fumes
From cars and such alike.

You see we have this hideaway
A little place down in the vale
So come along and join us
At the end of a farmers day