Everyone deserves to be a poet…for one day.
A knock off…laureate on display.
Fortunate, daughter, it is your day.
I found the river not lost but…wandering.
The water so clamorous,
that pockets of everyday living…can flow, in and around you.
Decisions that can be left for another day.
Battles, won or lost, whether you go or stay.
Coarse, they are, these headstones or markers, along the way.
The big brown dog always aware of impending calamity.
Roots boulder deep…
So much so, they could arise the dead from their sleep.
“It must be not enough to be the voice of someone else’s reason.
It must be enough to be our own reason.”
But these are dreams we dream…when we have no other dreams left.
Blue collar workers of rhyme, denizens of word theft.
Course, there are dried, deadlock, beds…
and, one wonders who else has come before to steal time?
But I have just got my broken feet back on the ground.
And, am not prepared to settle down.
The big brown dog…she does not care.
Taking it as it comes.
More or less, as long as, there is a roadside rest.
And, the occasional, foot bridge requiring an athlete’s best.
So, it is myself, and the big brown dog…with big brown eyes…
Myself, mostly upright.
She, in a habitat of brown leaves.
Down by a random stream.
Dreaming a roadside poet’s dream.