Wake me from this revolting riddle
My island…tartan from the toil
Every moment in slumber…I am submerged on faraway soil
Outings of yesteryear, swirl and wane from folly’s foil
Though I stack cords of oak to guard against my enemies
I fear tomorrow it will topple and the pond shall boil
Had I not known Friendly Strangers when young.
My reduced everything would have remained under constraint of younger guns
Now, only another Castaway…
Friendly Stranger wake me with your beat…
a distant and different kind of drum
As the earth steps back, flows…
ebbs and recedes.
It amazes me the difference between…
‘What we have been given! And, what we feel we have received!’
Spruce and pine.
What a victorious state of mind?
There is only an pardon from the gods.
A single cell producing an immediate choice.
Nonetheless, the basking beauty of the land holds the prevailing voice.
When the sun is out…
Still no refuge from a terminal chilled breeze
A sway to the winds.
A brave dance to begin.
Again and again, only a reprieve from the trees.
There’s a lady who’s sure
All that glitters is gold
And she’s buying a stairway to heaven…Zepplin
The man in the black hat asked,
“What makes you so sure?”
A simple response…
“Old insights and, of course, women’s intuition!”
A water, falling.
No end insight.
No need for a mother’s prediction!
No need for a hole in the wall…
All these punches in the air.
That is not what draws us near.
All jabs at manmade, luck!
If you take away your…
Piles of trash!
No need for my intuition!
The one hit wonders are fading fast.
Man in fading black hat,
“What there is no need to linger in the past!”
A simple response needed,
“Recycled ambition peels like a wet cast.
Inhibitions turmoil, lasts and, lasts.”
Letter from Mother…
Insinuate with soft, well, chosen strides.
Leave an open arm’s path…ahead and behind.
A venue for others to confide.
Not all season’s covet rebirth.
Ultimately, no man-made earth.
Contrite, as it appears.
Extinction grows near.
Beware an over harvest…coupled with a weighty appetite.
In every budding sapling, a saint, a sinner.
Nil is the return…on a landscape that cultivates thinner.
The shadow’s tire on decayed cornstalks.
In a layperson’s terms,
it is less in the way…
more in why…