The World Sings


The reasons for sitting and writing a poem
will vary from being to being.
Some feel that through writing they're building a home
for the thoughts of their minds that need freeing.
The more feathery creatures who open their wings
in a sailing embrace of the tossing blue day,
find a perch in their poetry (music they sing)
and the freedom to share as they go on their way.

And the branches themselves that are perched on and pecked on
are the patient, strong limbs of a greater artist
who still whispers the secrets of ages now long gone
when rustling winds cause his fingers to twist.

these winds show their gift as they preach to the masses--
they dance in the sun with a turbulent joy
weaving tapestries into the summer-green grasses
then unraveling them as a cat with a toy

Now the final display in this fanciful show
is from you, watcher, seer of all things before;
go-- create an abode for these things you now know
on some bright, not-too-far-away laughter-tossed shore...

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems


Share This Poem