I write for poets penning not for laughs,
for unlike them I have no funny bone.
Thence trusting said attempt would spark the gaffes,
I write for poets penning not for laughs.
Far be it I should write our epitaphs,
exposing barren wit that cause one moan.
I’ll write for poets penning not for laughs,
for unlike them I have no funny bone.

Night is your day
Stranded humans, your prey
Fascinating beauty
Seeming innocent display
Coded mode is your way

Lies fed unto hope
On tap in range and scope
Make-believe in nothing true
Enforced by petulant stubbornness
Leading nowhere to nothingness

A lion’s teeth on the nape to make it still
Indifference toughened stiff like steal
Victim drained of blood to lifelessness
Soul spirals into air, this earth my brother
Childless, O! Hear the cry of a mother

I took in hand a block of wood
and looking at it long I stood
trying my best to see within
the hidden form, where to begin

At last I saw an inner bird
and muttered"hmph" no other word
then set out with my keen edged knife
to bring the wooden bird to life

As at my feet the shavings grew
the shape emerged I so well knew
with care I carved each curve and nook
regardless of the time it took

He is North,
long, far up and cold
She, South,
sultry, sanguine and bold

the terrain is rough
none dare enter
He, tossing a
dime
and wishing for adventure

Bored, recalcitrant even spiteful
Life has handed him jokers
and many other causes-
Lost. Unmindful of his hurt
His need. His lonely longing.