"How will you show me your world? I am blind."

"Hear me. How do I sound like?"

"I'd say your voice is just like a nightingale. Full of love. Like an angel."

"How do I smell like?"

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Go on."

"Your smell... It's... addicting to be honest. Like a flower that is in a garden but its smell is so unique."

"Touch me. How do I feel like?"

"Your skin so soft. Softer than a petal of rose. Cheeks like a baby. I can imagine your blue eyes looking at me right now. You feel really beautiful."

"You don't need to see from your eyes to see my world."

...

I read the news today, oh my
Koo, koo, kachoo
The fox in is charge of the hen house
Gates are secure but the creature is inside
Feathers fly in helter skelter patterns
“You’ve got to crack a few eggs” is heard
as those who hear, scramble
seeking the sunnyside

A dozen or so duck the falling shells,
raining down from straw filled verses,
bland but obviously first in the pecking order,
hoping it all would be over…easy

While down on Broadway a church mouse sings off key
"Grabbed my coat and grabbed my hat,
ate the cheese in seconds flat,"
to a blindfolded audience
waiting to applaud till the curtain goes down,
so not to be seen greeting late arrivals
with luggage and tickets
hoping the next show is not sold out
for this standing room only presentation

Fortunately three, maybe four seats still remain unoccupied
as stale popcorn and sticky floors beckon them to
crushed velvet seating with
back pocket indentations left behind

The lights go down and the band strikes up
a rousing intro to what should be a good show,
at least that’s what the reviews said,
5 stars, Brilliantly directed, The best choice
for your daily intake of culture…

When a tuxedo with a smile
makes its way to center stage
and begins reading backwards,
“I buried Paul”

Boos rang out from the crowd.
“We came here for poetry!” was shouted in unison
But it just kept on, “Number 9, number 9, number 9”
The audience ran for the exit doors (stage left)
and as they hit the streets looking for something better,
“Turn me on dead man” echoed after them

Meanwhile, back at the chicken coop…

In haste...
Behind
Our footprints
Were the scattered emptiness
Of the memories
Of them
On the shores

She left the three parties of us
Me, Samantha
And our traveler friend

They were play things for sunset fares,
She said.

Just yesterday
They were happy to be here
The young flowers now scattered about
This beach shore
Too young to be plucked
Happy to grow up into one party of laughter!

That's how we remember they were here
That's how to plant graveside flowers
For the dead
They were play things for sunset fares

They were not soldiers
They were unprotected women
They were not warriors
They were unfed afraid Biafran children  

That's how to plant graveside flowers
That's how we have kept them forever
In our hearts
That's how we actualize Biafra.

Feeling a sense of power in my
Veins.
It trickles up my arms--
Sends signals to my
Brain.
Telling me I don't have no room
To be making these
Complaints.
Telling me you don't have no room
To call yourself
Insane

The fleeting moments
of a sweet exchange
as thrilling as the nightingale's song

Can fill the void
of a broken heart
and help to make it strong

The delicate words
of a maid to a man
and a soft kiss to his head

The honey filled praises
from a man to a maid
which dye her little hills red

The playful fights
which mean no harm
are filled with scattered laughs

And deep inside
the cautious man
finally removes his mask

These little sounds
like bells which ring
like notes on a musical staff

And the mighty king
filled with love
and in eternal bliss

Crowns his love
whom he has no life above
with a long lover's kiss