Sun and wind.
Wind and rain.
Summer nights,
and summer days.
The world turns.
Dreams are spun,
and spun again,
until
they all spin away.

Light and dark.
Dark and light.
Fireflies spark
in the deep of night.
In heavens bowl
stars burn bright.
Crickets chirp
upon the lawn,
until
the last moonbeam
is long gone.

Flow and ebb.
Ebb and flow.
Love may come,
and love may go,
but we all need
to have and hold,
and we all search
for our pot of gold.

Tide and time.
Time and tide.
Life is like
a carousel ride.
Pain and joy.
Joy and pain.
The world turns
from night to day.
Dreams are spun,
and spun again
until they all spin away.

Autumn’s sweet
pungent perfume,
winter’s promised gift,
yesterday’s dreams,
tomorrows hope,
swirl and drift upwards,
upwards,
in the spiraling
grey smoke,
from burning leaves.

Leaves of poplar, birch
of Maple, and of oak.

Fate and fortune,
ebb and flow,
flow and ebb,
until time its self
unwinds unnoticed
like tomorrow’s clock,
upon yesterday’s shelf.

Life tangles,
untangles,
laughter,
sweet moments of love,
come and go
as if they are
no more
than a spider’s web,
or a morning mist,
that vanishes
as the sun’s warmth,
begins to grow.

Red flames lick
until all that is,
is an ember’s
faint, fading glow.

For this is indeed
how tomorrow
will come,
and how
yesterday must go,
until our lives
are no more
than a wispy tendril
of grey smoke,
from burning leaves.

From my book of poems, “Serendipitous,” available on Amazon, just click the link to find it and the rest of my writing.
http://amzn.to/2dyOK97 please be kind and tell your friends. thank you

The tongue of the angry sea burns
as it licks away at the barren shore.

Flotsam and jetsam,
refuse of six billion people,
human waste of six billion,
poison the deep with filth.

Rotting fish turn white, sparkling sands
into a black, putrid garbage dump.
Sea birds in their thousands
flock and eat of this toxic bounty,
then add their flesh to the spoil.

Mother Nature’s forgiving nature,
can no longer nurture
the starving, devouring multitude,
with her once overflowing bounty.

Yet hopeful fishermen
still go down to the sea
in wooden sailing ships.
Still go down to the sea
in rusting iron ships.

The sea waits patiently
and gathers power in its loins.

Waves gouge at the land,
crushing all within their path,
under its unforgiving heel.

Sharp, barbed harpoons,
pierce deep into soft, quivering flesh.
A baby killer whale weeps
as it’s mother dies in agony.

Whale pods that use to sing
in the sunlight of the morning,
now scream in mourning
on this day of genocide.

Oil rendered without need,
oil rendered because of greed,
burns in ten thousand lamps
and beckons the bloody killers home.

Flabby tummies are now tucked in,
held fast in hour glass perfection,
by whalebone, torn from living things.

Ambergris, mixed with rose oil,
hides the odour of honest sweat.
Girls covered by this death guilt
announce themselves to the world.

The unending bounty of the sea
has now forever ceased to be.
A hungry, crying throng
stands upon the decaying shore.
They shake their upraised fists
into the empty, silent sky.
This ravenous, destroying multitude,
weep, weep and wonder why
trawlers, once laden
with the bounty of the deep,
once filled to overflowing
with the treasures of the sea,
come back to them no more.

Why must I always be
at the bottom of the barrel?
Why must my toast
always be un-buttered,
always made from moldy bread,
always burnt to crispness?

Why am I the first
to be forever un-chosen?
Why am I always picked on,
and never picked upon,
to take up a noble cause?
Why do I never know,
the knowing and seasons of others?

When the whole world smiles,
why must I weep
upon my own parade,
on my own birthday clowns,
on my own chocolate birthday cake?

Why am I always rained upon,
while the sun shines on others
dancing in the street, two feet away?
Why is my tea always cold,
so un-flavoured from week old tea bags?

While others earn their burial urns
with pennies so easily found,
I must dig for my richness
among the dead, so long in smelly ground.

I pick the pockets of the prophets,
but they have less than I do.
But why do others find the gold
that falls through the holes
of un-holy and broken shoes?

Why must I steal my words
from Wordsworth and word smiths,
To paint pictures of lost birds
who never loved or laid an egg?

Why must I lay
upon my death bed,
While those older than me
have found immortality?

Why don’t my chickens lay eggs
so my family can be fat with meat,
and not be forever rail thin and hungry?

Why must the seeds of wheat I sew
forever fall upon un-fallow ground,
forever fall upon un-hallowed ground?

I call all my questions out to the stars,
out to the moaning wind,
out to places I can never go to,
out to places where I’ve never been.
But my questions return un-answered,
and my dreams return un-dreamed,
and my love spurned, returns un-requited.