Sometimes I feel as though
writing poetry
is like throwing scraps at the dogs.
Have I satisfied my mind's hunger to write?
Not until
I can say
that I've written
with pride.
For the only way to be full
is to be brave enough
to swallow
my own
words.

Can you listen to it?
The cry of the wind,
outside.
Its is calling for you, to break the bars
to feel the freedom, to do the wish.

Have you ever attempted?
To see what do you want,
To say what you like,
with no burden of words.
To find yourself in other's eyes.
And hold your heart, out of the cage.

What, do you think?
Would you come with me, to head towards
the unexplored, unto the new Sun.
to the land of daffodils and wilds of pine.
Where you can be you,
the wind is you and the rain is me.

Yellow and lime
Distinct in rhyme
Have raised their heads before their time
Wordsworth's words sought in kind

Intent rearranged as the gaze has changed with age
Do Daffodils cheer me up?
Not so vast in a public park

For experience raises expectations
or am I the holder of a colder heart
further inline set to depart

A voice stored inside reminds
with a twinkle in his eye that
'Variety is the spice of life'

...whence?  I know, I know, you've the florist's packet of preservative mixt for your cut flowrs don't you?  Good luck.  



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCXXV)


Lo, tulip capes so thickly clustered they'll
Ne'er blossom, like sardines is it from hence?
Wait greenly by the back stoop for a sense
Of April in the wings.  And jonquils' hale
Green tendrils wait likewise for that detail
I guess, as maids whose innocent suspense
We fail to notice, full of vain pretense'
Auld lies as if such might at last avail.
Girls have been known as flowrs, since oh, in tour
God's Scriptures told us that, I spose.  Aye, do
Men ink laments of this or that as twere
It's thus:  "...her virgins, pure, deflowrd--" they knew.
These latter days we are taught lies, (in poor
'Scuse know by instinct) and cut flowrs down too.

29Mar19a

sigh* as evidenced by which pieces "trend" being depressed is tops, while beauty is left to rot.  Whateffer.



(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCLXXVII)


Blue skies.  And golden light with shadows' pale
Forms on the yellowed lawns and blacktop hence,
Sweet minutes whose eye seems tis April's, whence
My heart yearns 'gain to walk free and avail
Me of which blossom?  Daffodils to scale
Shall send green nubbins up til for intents
Their frilly golden heads can nod from thence
To playful breezes while wee violets hail.
Yea, soon Magnolia petals shall bestir
'Gain to soft winds, and pink-tinged satin woo
Thoughts of a bride upon the aisle as twere.
For now we'll have our refried beans and do
Dessert in birthday style with cake in tour
And ice cream for the Ides of March' ado.

15Mar19d