The Process of Learning.

I’m not as quaint as Joanna
or as loud as when the bomb went off.
That’s the shovel in my hands;
that’s acknowledgement I’ve said enough
before I have spoken.

I’m not the voice from the gutter
or the minister, but when I see others
with their hands in their pockets,
kickin’ and whistlin’ some carefree tune…
I often wonder what songs they sing.

But these verses aren’t pictures of me -
I’ve no idea what the words to that song would be.
It’s admittance that I need to speak,
and speak loudly, not mumble as I have been.

So I plead, turn off your TV
and drag yourself outside to steal some peace.
You might choke on what you breathe.
You might realise you’re not complete
and move on.

There’s a dog digging for a bone
and elsewhere there’s treats of a grander size,
it’s everything his owner’s let him know
and in those piles of dirt is where he’ll find his prize.

* A work in progress. Not entirely happy with this.

Tumbleweed Town.

I don’t recall the sight of a floating butterfly,
or treading the steep decline of a rolling hillside;
too long from the rising whisper of an approaching tide.
I doubt anything will grow through the cracks in these roads
and I await a stronger wind to help these buildings corrode.
The bags beneath my eyes surfaced some time ago
and this place is no home of mine.

Well there might be some beauty, like a last wilting rose,
hidden deep somewhere in the barbed hedge rows,
but the thorns of the bushes are tearing my clothes
and I don’t want to remain should my rags disappear.
I’d be crestfallen if I fell to my first frontier
when I’ve so many devices and relentless ideas.
Still this place will never be a home of mine.