It’s hot in
Missouri.
The summer  
sun looks down  
jealous of
youth playing in
the fields,
carefree and
careless.
Kids drown
muskrats with
rocks in the
stream, and have
funerals for flies.
Death watches, and
waits for
winter to come.

I talk too much
When things get rough
It's all apart
Of my nervousness

Where you're bound to find
I hide behind
More than a few
Misquoted lines

It's how I make
My great escape
From giving my
True self away

All this in spite
Of what I'm like
A country kid
That's kind of shy

With this crutch
That talks too much
To try and hide
His nervousness

a shared space with spiders
Winter with the eight legged
come in from the cold

practising knitting silk
snuggled down-
and dreaming of flies.

...but time-lines
  are not for me
  they'd only inhibit
my creativity-

nature knows
when to appear:
with end of autumn
winter will be near-

if I write at all
it must surely be
from my heart's bidding
in complete spontaneity-

let the addictive scientist
focus on his lonely laboratory-
calibrations and measurements
(in time-prescribed) to the minutest accuracy-

mine shall only be
what I ascribe in my heart-line
unfettered and without boundary
whether I write in prose or poetry.