A Circular Rhythm

We draw circles around a mask, our lives.

Each path we give another sweet facade

however might surmise such actions odd.

For we do covet a straight line that thrives.

 

Such is a world built as linear lines

meant for a passage without a defense.

acrid is a shelter by those who whence

internal facade sooner discard vines.

 

We stand inside the realm when given time

see such are the eyes of judgment are held

accountable of course our lives do weld

shapes and forms would eyes accept on a dime.

 

Oh strike us down in fraught shallow schism

It is such absurdity upsets rhythm

 

 

Nature Is An Ask

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We wind our humanity across a babbling stream

call it our own of course for we say we belong.

Matters little life of a creature seeming dream

this haven feed silence in their tiny world long.

 

Scrape away life with corrosive blades of pain

the construct of a vision far beyond that of game.

We will build here, our own safe haven our gain

quiet animals survive might we give sweet name.

 

We are that primate race intelligence does mask

hiding ourselves in conclaves of brick and mortar.

Would we anyone be less defensive in this an ask

the land we sweep meant to be our general order.

 

When was it that Man chose simplicity to scrape

this order delight, of a living patterned landscape.

Winter In Minnesota

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Something refreshing a pristine winter.

fresh sunlit  snow touch silent runner’s eye

layered across a landscape painted sky,

we might let troubles risen disappear

 

if in this moment, trees become statues

dignified pose, a carnival in ice.

shaded sphere of heat will nearby suffice

light up a runner’s path – dawn guided views

 

We seek knowledge of a heartiness here

Gitchi-Gami, shadows quiet weakness

Inside the brilliance of a lovely dress

soft upon the runners, sweeping past fear.

 

Trails are designed, hold favor to imprint

lasting lover’s scene, a stepping stone stint.

 

 

 

 

Listening, As Bullfrogs Might

Outside my window,

The sky black in twilight,

No breeze to offer an anxious

Tear into a calm evening.

 

Except the bullfrogs near

Must be a dozen at least

A three sound utterance

Shared by another nearby

 

Three times that’s all,

Perhaps the pitch might change,

Another again will chime in,

They’ll all be together in sound

 

I wonder about the simplistic strife

Surrounded alone in a pond of afterlife

It Is A Beautiful Day

cometogether

Beatles


How so do the moods define our day,

we wake to a sunlit morning to defy the odds,

or perhaps we settle in selective pods

stepped away we did from society’s way.

 

A certain lovely attraction is contained in smile

circus acts and normalcy all find sweet balance,

life becomes less of form, tossed beyond chance

might we interact open heartedly in the while.

 

We speak of a world that exists based upon because

spirited within an altruistic desire toward freedom.

Yet somewhere along the way began a kingdom

begetting perhaps – there begs the question of laws.

 

Sans the trifle, sense the spirited nature of release

We shall find resolute Love internalized in peace.

Sweet Morning Peace

Oh I do wish the world might offer solace

When it is we are all wandering an alone,

A wonder is to recognize any one pace

Could, would offer a shoulder to unknown

 

Soul who cries in the midst of happiness,

For it is the season to seek absolute joy,

Because we were told, and now deploy

Our finest avenues of energy to impress.

 

Yet how might the onlooker really feel

If in the end their yearning find sorrow,

If only in a moment their truth borrow

The Grace in everyone’s eyes they appeal.

 

For when the world begins to understand

Is the time that hardship wears no land.

To Reach The Sky

When on a walk one early summer morn

A man began to think of life beyond

He paused to watch while children so forlorn

Seemed occupied in games they thought so fond.

 

While certain parts of life seem unattained

If standing here today would measure love

Then all the man would need to feel restrained

Might be a song, a cooing of a dove.

 

Where have the days begun to slide away

A man who stands alone knows no despair

Yet when the people call there is this way

The sky becomes the answer though we swear.

 

To gather storms to help define a sky

Would leave the afterward a silent cry.