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When all the butterflies are gone
And only Caterpilers yet remain
The barren landscape will forget
Just what the color green looked like.

When the rain no longer ever falls
And water tastes a bit like salt
The withered earth will hunger for
The sweet flavor of the morning dew.

When water seeps over the window sill
And everthing is muddy brown and ruined
The Mocking Birds will gather in a chorus
To sing sacred dirges to the houses.

When billboards are spray painted white
With only dabs of purple in the corners
The world will finally have ended
And somehow no one got the word.
ljm
Billboards and cockroaches will be the last things to go.
That damnable revolving dot
Gnaws at my patience,
Grates at my tolerance,
Prevents the necessary delving into our historys.
....and frustrates the HELL out of ALL of your people, Eliot!

Get it fixed, PRONTO!

M.
this person, who reads somehow
almost every poem here deposited,
how he does it, a secret, well kept,
but hardly hidden, for he signals
his appreciation in so many ways,
and s p o t l i g h t s those who frequent
contribute, cheerleader and coach
with keen eye and sharpness of brain,
he affectively, affectionately, injects &
infects this little expanse,
this Kingdom of York,
where lovers meet,
speaking in their own
dialect of kindness…

writes himself with a uniqueness,
dare I say in his owned style?
there is never a doubt
who has authored his work,
so many superb scripts,
but his better good works,
present in his presence here,
bringing out the best of the
multiplicities of each of us

but of whom do I speak?

Why,

Carlo C. Gomez

of course!
repost his poems please
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