Yellow, orange, green, and gold,
In a world devoid of drama,
Unless you can find some in
Inclusion of
An Oxford comma
Tag: #48Poems48Hours3
stacks of rocks
stacks of rocks are very zen. i don't know why. that's it. the end.
To share is human:
forgotten sands of almost-time
forgotten sands of almost-time ran out, and there we were: you had your sundry choices as to what you might prefer -- so many possibilities, with you the lone discussant: but none were really good enough. at least i know i wasn't
To share is human:
Entranced by Beauty
I am entranced by beauty,
Although I realize
That there is more to someone than
What happens to our eyes.
For love is made of laughter,
And stays in times of woe —
And character of brains and will
And more that I don’t know.
But when sunshine in Paris
Sets almond eyes aflame,
I am entranced by beauty,
And it’s good, all the same
To share is human:
Can You Stop The Sunset?
Now, can you stop the sunset?
Can you control the hours?
Or is this just another thing
That’s far beyond your powers?
What’s real was once what hadn’t been,
What’s here is only now;
And though we hold on to its rays,
The sun escapes, somehow.
Now, can you stop the nightfall,
And keep at home the years?
Or is the now for us to see,
And then recall
Through tears?
To share is human:
Overlooking
Out on the terrace,
Overlooking the green valley,
We drank in silence.
But, then, overlooking things
Was our strongest shared feature
To share is human:
Verity
Last night, I had a vivid dream.
I was a place I’ve never been.
But honor lived there yet, intact,
And still within the reach of men,
And women, too, who were alike,
Though diff’rent looking; young and old,
In seeking truth and fairness, through
The stabbing pain of constant cold.
A place of right for those who had been wronged:
A me, not really sure that I
Belonged
To share is human:
Penultimate-icity
I sat to write four-dozen things;
I’ve written forty-seven.
The sun is golden in the sky,
And kind of looks like heaven;
As peace falls on the wintertime,
That’s constant, and abiding,
And I sit here, right after this,
For one more bit
Of writing
To share is human:
A Winter Crow
I guess I am a winter crow.
Although I’m not a birder —
I’ve see so many of them now
It’s absolutely murder.
For many birds will go one way,
Together, in connection —
But I am always flying in
The opposite direction.
So I say, I’m a winter crow.
And will add, in concluding,
That people say I’m somber, when
It turns out I’ve
Been brooding
