to write like me
you must first review my routine
lift weights
take boxing lessons
drink beer in bars
laugh loudly in the street
sing karaoke every week
date women from different backgrounds
kiss like you mean it
and make love that soaks the sheets
take random trains
to far off places
work jobs until you hate them
and quit as you slowly go mad
then you will be half the poet I am
because I am still only half the poet
I know I can be
it's a challenge to balance
to juggle this routine
I am trapped between two loves
my love for life
and my love to write
between living life
and writing about it
between being alive
and writing about it
to me writing and living go hand in hand
but they cannot always co-exist
when you burn your light to the brink
as I do
i must find the line
but the line is hard to find
because there are only so many hours in a day
and life swoops us by like an owl
with a mouse in its mouth
leaving us with only a brief window
in which to carve a lasting legacy
beware this life style isn't for everyone
only the chosen few can pull it off
this artful existence
this vagabond life
a tiresome gift
from mischievious gods
who see themselves in us
but never mind kid
you are probably a better poet than me anyway

When  you  go  down  there.
The  settings  so  grand.
And  you  might  see  my  friend  there.
Playing  in  his  band.

The  sun  minting  coins
on  the  surface  is  grand.
Casting  shadows
across  on  the  land.

The  setting  so  grand  there.
And  fills  you  with  hope.
In  this  mad  world.
It  helps  you  to  cope.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK. 2017.

she that one girl that's all alone
but then he came along
he saw her scars  
then he showed her the stars
it all began with a broken heart
then it all changed when he came
he called her by name
he said he would show her love and not use it as a game
now her heart is whole again
he is her lover and her best friend
and she'll never be alone or forgoten

The oaks locale was flawless , a songster mockingbird
was in perfect pitch , her marshland retained -
waters to exacting standards , her nutrient rich feeder streams quietly meandered
The land drew me in with perfumed 'piedmont wind'
Gods blue eyes watched over me from on high ,
faces appeared in marshmallow sky
Water lashed the banks
Pine trees reflected skyward in perfect rank
Wild azalea , honeysuckle , cottonwood and river birch
guardians stood beside me
Tall brown grass danced , directing my homeward journey

I was passing through my childhood
on a bike
to the delight of flying with the balloons

من از کودکی هایم می گذشتم
بر چرخی که می راندم
...تا شوق به پرواز درآمدن با بادبادک ها