They exchange lists,
Of thoughts and feelings,
That converge,
And make them
Slightly less absurd.
But what poets understand, the best,
Are the elements that come together,
To feather, other poet’s nests.
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We own the sea,
The clouds that,Silently go by,We navigate,With heart and eye,And keep on asking,Always, Why?What greater pleasure,Can there be?Than paint or sing,All that we see.A Planet Wondrous,Beauty shared,Should be by all,Enjoyed and cared,To be a poet,Artist be,No greater happiness,Have we,Creative Spirit,Live thee free,Inspire us,To better be.
No one is really
EverythingSooner or laterIs put intoPersonal gear,We are self-centered,Selfish, egotistsThat is clear,Even if ‘socialism’And brotherhood,Are occasionallyCheered!
Is there in every poet,
Of incipient insanity,Because they write,And think so much.
Poet Fools,
But in Real world,It’s War and Grease,So few attempts,To harmonize,Instead we’d rather,Paralyze,The Planet, Moon,The Ocean, fair,Because so Few,Do really Care!
I have never been able to share
With someone special,Who came along,Then, no longer alone,In a cold, disenchanted worldWhere more hate than love,Is so sadly served.In me,Locked in perpetuity,Feelings that have no name,But that are feelingsJust the same,That have been cried to the SeasTo the white peaked waves, with easeBut never to the right one,Who might have understoodThe burden of the Lone…
After the rain,
The air was clean,And seemed blue too,The rain had painted skies deep blue,And then I thought so much of You,How far you are, the Ocean too,The Sky, the Ocean, sadly Blue.It makes me think that you can wish,Upon a blue-lit tingling Star,That seems so close, yet is so far,That Love can travel to the moon,Yet,…