all alone, in the lap of nature,
which does each one of us nurture,
to the quietude of some symphony
in the far off distance,
perhaps Nigeria,
playing a tune of dismal melancholy,
awaiting the snowflakes to melt
upon your shoulders
as others all slumber in peace,
within their cozy comfy vaults
and
dreaming of what looks outside
like a storm,
as you traverse in real form.

Silently playing a flute,
a mouthorgan
or a distant imaginary trumpet,
hoping to eventually become
the Prez
Some day God willing

~
~~~~~*

Wistful
wandering like a snowflake
down this page of thought,
the dark silence
lit by small fires

the viridian purple
of the black sheen
cast like ghosts
of past flares
way out in space.

LoveAnn

The poem is extraordinarily good, I can see the growth you have found in your work. It touches at a human and an imagery level.
Just change that wanker title, please.

I want a night of dreamless
realm
dark headiness
and sprinkler ghosts
rushing wet damp
pavement

and the silence
of the stars
cloaked in their
watchful eternity
behind the
softness
behind the
histories
that choose us

so peaceful... *sighs

always, Cat

The more we read it
the more it grows
and grows
like the bean stalk
into the sky of our
consciousness

"like the sky turning
announcing her
mystic shine"

way out there
where our brains hold their secret store
of images and experiences,

"the streetlights are coming
on along the shores"

Mr Wolf manages it every time.
Ann.

"behind the
histories
that choose us"
.