Broken Mirrors
Every face I see in the shards
frowns silently back at me
as a reflection of what I see.
Death is dealt in the cards
handed and arranged silently
whispered in my ear sweetly.
Burial shrouds unroll in yards.
Our future is paved by the past
this love, this day may be our last.
No rhyme in my heart like a Bard's,
just tears and loneliness again.
Where is the love we knew back then?
Every face I see in the shards
frowns silently back at me
as a reflection of what I see.
Coconuts
Light green orbs on trees; coconuts sway in the breeze far above my upturned face. Tropical rains make them grow. Winds push them to and fro at a slow steady island pace. When ripened they will fall, from their perches so tall to decorate the palms' base. We never worry about a freeze on our island in the South Seas. We live life at a relaxed pace. While others struggle with snow and sadly lament winter's woe, they imagine us in this place, coconuts the size of soccer balls, and listening to bright birds' calls. All of tropical life; coconut encased.
Bumble Bee
"Hummmm, buzzzz, roar."
here come a squadron;
bees, a hundred or more,
like B-52's, flying along.
Bodies, yellow and black,
bumble through springtime air,
crystalline wings upon their back,
pollen stuck in their hair.
I marvel at their erratic flight
and think of flower's bloom
in a bright morning light
spreading their perfume.
A technological wonder,
That they say are getting extinct.
Long may bees thunder,
a sight and sound distinct.
Counterpoint To A Path To Freedom
From the shadows
I watch you in silence.
On the edge of a cliff
peering at the valley below,
I see you,
feeling small,
insignificant, and obsolete.
From the shadows
I watch you in silence,
riding on the wings of a bird
all alone and nearly
hidden by clouds
sailing by far below.
From the shadows
I watch you in silence,
as you sit upon
your throne of loneliness.
I long to be among
the people
bowing and scraping.
From the shadows
I watch you in silence.
I am the fields of spring.
I am the grass.
I am your everything,
except your path to freedom.
Colonel Holman Mountain
I look out my window and see
they are building windmills
on Colonel Holman's Mountain.
I sometimes wonder what's next
for the wild state I cherish.
They are building windmills
and a fight is brewing
down on Congress Street
between the pure power people
and nature's sanctity spokesmen.
On Colonel Holman's Mountain
they carry signs and banners
saying "outsider's keep away,"
never knowing how he kept
the redcoat Burgoyne at bay.
I sometimes wonder what's next
when we refuse to change
and try new energy sources.
We still rape land wrestled
from those British forces.
For the wild state I cherish
has withstood attack before,
but when her people
fight so among themselves
it hurts that much more.
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