Ode to …

Hey you. Hey me.
The spirit of reason.
Of right. Of wit.
Dismissing the dailies
And ignoring the noise
Created by those with agendas.

Don’t let distractions
Or flash bang slight of mind
Trick your soul to sleep
And keep singing the lie,
The tune that comforts quietly,
Happy birthday over and over.

What will we say when
We stand atop the rubble
Of what’s left of our sanity?
What will we use to paint
Our pride that we willingly sold
At market for magic beans?

The tree that grows from
A seed found in your pocket
Sprouts just as quick.
Yet the foolish farmer
Waters with winter winds
And sows them in sand.

That’s not a flight
Of migration’s might
Or nature’s annual trek.
It is the wings of angels
Blotting out the sun
As they leave to try again.


    1. I like this part too. What if nth’s left of our sanity? Oh heck, who cares.
      I also like this foolish farmer of yours, as well as your poetic evolution altogether. Your poems have changed so much with time so if you don’t mind I’ll stick around for more.

      Liked by 3 people

      1. I am glad you like it. I know they have changed, and that is not a bad thing. At least for me. I don’t mind it at all. In fact, I would so love it if you would stick around. I cannot predict where I will go, but I won’t be a boring George.

        Liked by 1 person

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