I cant do this anymore
words no longer flow
the mind is now an empty place
the words no longer flow

I loved to write poetic verse
but recently I've lost my nerve
because
the words no longer flow

I used to write of birds and flowers
of time spent in tranquil hours
Writing of the spume capped waves
writing of the things I love
but the words no longer flow

I've had my ups had my downs
been serious been the clown
but now it all has got to stop
because the words no longer flow

T Rex thought he was the king but truly he was no such thing
he was a bully sad and weak who prayed on those to young to speak
Then came the day when baby Trice
got to close to Rexies lair
Rexie thoughg his luck had changed and now would play the Rexie game
Which was to take the young and weak
so soft and tender, good to eat
Rex thought I will have some of that
the baby trice will be quite a snack and fill a corner of my tum
But Rex had made a big mistake, oh dear a grave mistake
For round the corner came trice's mum weighing a bit
more than about three tonnes
Three big horns upon her head
One jab from those could leave Rex dead
She gave poor Rex an evil stare
said "Bite young Trice if you dare"
Then I will deal you a mighty thump
and I promise you your bone will crunch
Poor Rexie backed away in fear and in his eyes salty tears
People thought for many years that Rex was king and had no fear
But they didn't know Triceratops,  the bravest dinosaur of the lot

Sometimes I Wish Trees
Were People
That Way I Could Sit
In Their Boughs
And They Could Dry
My Tears Away With Their Leaves

*~Marian~

I had a father,
he was a kind man.
I'm not the kind of man
he was.

I try hard,
sometimes I fail.
I still look for him
in the mirror.

He fought two wars;
didn't make him strong.
He did that on his own;
he fought his own wars.

Looking back
now that he's gone,
I have to stop and wonder
what was in the water.

My old man
was the kind of man
that someday I hope to see
in the mirror.

r ~ 6/14/14

Under the banyan few bamboo stalls
Baskets of garden’s produce
Whiff of fresh fish from fishing trawls
Buyers the sellers amuse.

Brinjals and pumpkins papayas and gourds
Small catch from neighborly streams
With buy and sell exchange few words
Alike a sketch seen in dreams.

Small things small price wish don’t soar high
A few coins to relieve bowel’s pain
Will do enough to let the hopes fly
No need for too hard bargain.

Will be left behind not all will be sold
The fragrance of freshness will stale
They won’t rue hearts of true gold
Having learned this hard fact too well.

Some hours spent when shadows grow dark
Sun decides to recline in west
Wind up they all under moon’s arc
Happy souls homebound for rest.

Sighs the banyan long standing witness
Pains it the quietude of stars
Holds it through dark watches endless
Coming and going of pedlars.