I took a stroll from the University
out to the real world it ain't pretty
my path was crossed by a child, witty
and playful he was in kindy
on his right hand was a toy
and on his face was a smile so giddy
he reminded me of my myself at that age
Where has the time Gone?

i continued my stroll
A couple of kilometers away i meet an old man
outside the hospital who just lost his only son
i didn't know him but i spoke to him he was all torn
He spoke of his sons death right to the day of his birth
The old man looked different like he was in a hearth
Pain sicken grief ridden he spoke to his heart
Why didn't i spend more time with my son?

Time is elusive
Make the best of it

~Q~

When sleeping poets do dream
Do they dream at certain times
the same dreams as us, you, or I
Long love dreams without an end

Spiders winding and toads weaving
Tiny cockle shells or huge daffodils
Cold hearts melted or fried ones too
Loves not gone the other way again

Falling off, falling in, falling down
Purpled eyed women and wiggly men
Nightmares arriving never in time
Time speeding up to stand still again

Summer nights in dripping red clouds
Rain falling up or tasting sour winds
Chased once around the world twice
Losing anyway the long way back in

Winning big green coins for jumping
slow trains to nowhere, now there anywhere,
and everywhere not here,
running on tilted electrified blue time

Inhaling the soft touch of perfect love
including all the ugly ingrown warts
Coughing up butterflies into the pool
with the squishy muddy zombie eyes

Echoes heard louder with both eyes
Coloring skies without knowing why
Flights to there with wings of flame
Swallowing rainbows to taste the gold

Colors amongst us walking, talking
Phantasmal fast riding beasts
sinuously moaning oh white *******
drifting with silver temptation winds

Tripping over sounds under tall feet
blowing them in retort not too,
but three, five and one dime more
Fantastical things, ordinary for all

Then perhaps, they maybe dream
Mostly all the same as us, you or I
Of course, that may mean, we,
Could someday be real poets, three

Yet we know the biggest difference
Between a real poet or not, must be
not so much in sleeping dreams
but in those precious awakening dreams

©  2017 Jim Davis