'I slept, and dreamed that life was beauty;
I woke, and found that life was duty.
Was thy dream then a shadowy lie?
Toil on, sad heart, courageously,
And thou shall find thy dream to be
A noonday light and truth to thee.'

I'll freestyle this,
As is done the love on my lips.
There's too much that the human mind,
Leaves tightly capped inside.
Every pressure of this universe,
Laced upon a scripted source; of negativity.
It's all too real to me, I'm blind.
But as a mother once said,
There's more than tears to shed or eyes to cry.
But look instead, in the love soaked parts of our minds.
Expel all you can that's captured there,
Expose yourself completely bare and let them see,
Through all this you'll survive...

Why is there no monument
To Porridge in our land?
It it's good enough to eat,
It's good enough to stand!

On a plinth in London
A statue we should see
Of Porridge made in Scotland
Signed, "Oatmeal, O.B.E."
(By a young dog of three)

Late December: my father and I
are going to New York, to the circus.
He holds me
on his shoulders in the bitter wind:
scraps of white paper
blow over the railroad ties.

My father liked
to stand like this, to hold me
so he couldn't see me.
I remember
staring straight ahead
into the world my father saw;
I was learning
to absorb its emptiness,
the heavy snow
not falling, whirling around us.