Within the four walls
Below a roof
Busy with play of words
The poet is aloof.

The sky is breaking low
Pitter patter rain
Capture they must the flow
Of drizzles soothing pain.

Outside on a stretch of green
Drenched to the bone
A man with cracking skin
Hoeing from morn.

The toiler is tasked to ****
Paid by the hour
Must earn the precious quid
Whatever the shower.

The poet is lost in the toil
To grow his rhyme in shower
The **** works fast the soil
Growing hope by the hour.

Dear Wildflowers,
How does it feel to be the moons favorite child?
How about the suns personal treasure?
You're born in the spring,
Bloom in the summer,
And creep into our hearts in the winter months.

Dear Wildflowers,
How does it feel when the rain falls on your petals
Washing away your impurities?
Teach me how to guide the wind.
Teach me how to live life
Simple and Easy.

Dear Wildflowers,
How does it feel to be free?
To have no boundaries?
Share with me your secret,
How did you do it?
Did you charm them with your beauty?
Or do you simply have the strength?

Dear Wildflowers,
I envy you.
You're so beautiful,
Graceful as you dance together,
Mimicking the movement of the waves,
Magnifying it.

Love,
Every teenage girl who has ever gazed out the wind,
Across the lawn,
And into life's eyes.

I pile up twenty years worth of
Publisher-declined
Collections.

They reach me to my knees.
Little towers of Poetic
Injustice;

Mini-monuments to the years
Of mailbox disappointments
And cursing the arts.

Now I thank for every manuscript
Returned with their polite regrets.
Another volume of "Unpublished

Works" for the future.
They are my Twelve Monkeys.
My Poetry of Gold at the

Rainbow's End.

He hasn't buried the baby within
but today he buried the ashes of his baby
crying like a baby
as the river devoured the bone dusts
and all the remnants
of the cuddles and kisses
hollowing him to remember
the guest of his blood
that would feed on his grief
for the rest of his life.