"dryland" poems
When I was young
My old Dad said
Keep thinking on your feet.
Don’t lose your head
And fall in love
With the first cutie you meet.
I always tried
To pay good mind
To what my Dad always said.
To let his words
Find a proper place
In the good part of my head.
But Dad never told
Of seductive types
Who were after your paycheck.
They can smile at you
And then turn your life
Into an emotional shipwreck.
They act shy at first
Butter wouldn’t melt
But wait until a few dates later.
They finagle and flirt
And then do you dirt;
Make you ready for your creator.
I learned to slow down
And ask many things
To learn what she is all about.
Now I don’t find myself
Laid out on my floor
Gasping like a dryland trout.
Daddy was correct
When he advised me
To move slow and be wary.
There have been many
Of comely young lassies
I am very glad I didn’t marry.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 7:44 PM UTC
do birds dream of dreamy dryland?
flying, soaring, roaring
captured in the enigma of the vast sky
pondering often, much less
about the swamp of the highland
of the island
of the low tides, that ride across oceans
spreading dimensional volumes of chaos and serenity
euqally, equally never though
misunderstood the platonic shifts
the globe revolves around itself
hiding its trail like a criminial mastermind
through the galaxy, ripping apart the cosmos
flying in darkness unwary of the past
concerned of the future,
only goal to set ablaze the multitude of stars
shining its own light from across the universe
an explosion in the sky
perceived by the very eyes
of the bees that thrive to make honey
sweet nectar
pollination, spreading seeds
far, afar from the mother root
like a wildflower drifting with the wind
of deeply crafted notions
spreading across nations
like a wildfire moving down the hill
sometimes up, yet still only filling
a thrill of moving against
gravity
of situations that arise
from within the minds of howless wolves
comfortably numb in the ice cold of ages
crying from within
the flock of sheep that it wears on its sleeve
honesty lives
buzzocks! bizzare, blatant, blunt
bulls chasing the motion of the picture
that lies infront
right infront the holy effigy
of moronic morals
played in the minds of infants
like the best selling vinyl
from the greatest rockstar of the lightyears
lost and forgotten, and found and preserved
in the mighty hearts of martyrs
entombed in the ground of wishful thoughts
flowers and flowers
long, relentless buzzing hours
of sobbing over what has become
revelation drives a madman
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 1:11 AM UTC
The sun beats down
with burning rays
atop a desert sand.
Nothing moves,
there is no sound,
among the Earth's dryland.
The hard ground cracks
a little more
as the days get hotter.
Only a snake
sits by a pool
of freshly cold spring water.
The water provides the snake with life
without it,
he would die.
But the snake
sees something else:
a pool he can't deny.
For it had trees
that shaded him,
more comfortable a space.
But this pool
was not as pure
no not as much in grace.
Either way,
the snake moved on
across that pool of shade,
giving in
to all temptations
that the water made.
He was never unhappy
and stayed
for quite a while.
For the pool
was something new
whose looks would all beguile.
Until one day,
the snake woke up
and found the water gone.
For all that was left-
a pile of dirt,
and nothing to count on.
And so he went
back to the place
for which he had vacated.
Alas he found,
it too was ground.
The pool evaporated.
The snake grew frantic.
Filled with panic,
his life had reached it's deadline.
The warmth was gone.
He'd never see dawn.
So long, the Desert Sunshine.
Dec 10, 2019
Dec 10, 2019 at 1:24 PM UTC