The Land Of Plenty
The old sturgeon held his fishing pole
Sitting well away from the busy shoal
Right on the pond's mossy bed.
He swung it once, swung with might,
Yours is wondrous Poetry
Laden with the ripe fruits of emotion,
The lustrous layers of your longing.
One should only very carefully tread
A word of caution, my friend
For it pains me so to see you
Raising castles with flimsy sticks
And fanning the flames of hope
The Island Of Your Smile
Oh, indeed it'd easier to abdicate
And walk out into exile in a cove of silence
Than to raise a bridge of words
And steal over the ocean of your indifference.
Her Kisses Drink Me Up Slowly
Her kisses drink me up slowly
Her mouth sipping keenly
Then playfully holding back,
Her moist lips thirsting,
Gratitude To A Black Bird
Black bird perched on the eave
Croaking a dissonant note amidst
So many Nightingales
Are you aware of my gaze?