Pitter-patter drip,
I hear the rain on my roof,
Singing me to sleep.

How very pretty,
I just love the pretty sound,
I just love the rain!!

Don't you love it too?
I just love it's lullaby,
Singing me to sleep.

*~Marian~

Brown water, rocks and trees,
habitat of geese and ducks.
Endless ripples blur the water’s surface, and
no cloud is mirrored on its face.

The season of death
robs the color from this vista,
while snow paints majestic peaks
touching clouded skies.

Willows, with fall-rusted leaves stubbornly clinging,
sway like hair in the pre-storm winds, and
pompous grass banners bend northward
shaking in anticipation of winter’s cold touch.

Black-headed geese with white chin straps
bob peacefully on unsettled waters, or
stand one-legged – beaks buried ‘neath their wings
in Zen-like balanced repose.

Why doesn’t the wind knock them over?

A lone green-headed mallard swims amongst the geese
muttering to himself and looking for his kind.
He seems to know he is an interloper.
Finally he spies his clan resting sleepily beneath a spreading pine, and
quickly retreats to a more accepting place.

A sudden disturbance makes the geese run on water –
flapping wildly and finally lifting
into the sullen November sky.


© 2012 Michael Hunter

Philosophers have out grown philosophy
So they set down their motions of peace
And pick up the mixtapes and cds
Of the artist that speak the truth
Tho, truthfully I believe,
Real artist can never become mainstream
Ideals of the underground
Shake the balance of the things
We watch on tv, Subliminal messages
and suggestive themes
I confess that I once was meshed
With the things they wanted me to be
Silent to world I had a voice but could not speak
Nothing special just a ***** from the streets
Had a lot of brains but lacked hope
So I became I refuge of anger and violence
A menace to society,
My hands seemed to find everything I need
My hope was stolen, So I stole whatever could fit in my jeans.
Misguided by the bad influence
As I grew I broke hold of the influence
Tho, still lived my life under the influence Sleepless nights, emotionless days
So I concocted a formula To make the pain go away
Let go of my anger Locked up my rage
Educated myself On matters of the new age
I found that’s nothing’s new
Besides the technology We’ve grown accustom to
People sale their souls
To get their face on the news
The media grabs their tongues Insolent fools,
Voices are silenced Or set to hide
When what they say Is what’s on their mind
The truth, Whispered to blind eyes
Now mentally I’m the Voltaire of this century
Learn your history I shall enlighten the

Here comes the rain
the weatherman said would come,
and arrived just like a train.
No wait at a platform
or delay for a death,
just precipitation
and a whole lot of wet.
Wet windows and wet grasses,
moist tables left from the summers,
plant pots turned bowls,
to catch the water that floods and falls.
Here comes the rain again,
that the weatherman said would come.

What
     we
        sea
Not                  
       What
     we    
here

Rather Silly-
           Rather Queer?