There's so much tunin' before I play this song There's so much prunin' before trees reach the sun And there's so much doin' before our days are done 'cuz we can't reap 'fore sowin' can't rest before we've run For it's a life well workin' 'fore it's a life well won.
these iThings are far too sweet for my buds and in poverty 'tis enough to eat and not shrivel in the sun.
Tho' sometimes I do desire a sumptuous feast
to spend and take, all while living in fun
and I wonder about this cold hard seat
when, on heated cushions, I could be resting my buns and every meal could be like some great treat unworried about those -erers who know hung-.
But then I remember it's no small feat to be content with not all, but just some and tho' myThings are not iThings and have no great beats they suit my needs when they're done and tho' my ride is but my own two feet it's the same when I get where I've gone so why should I feel shamed defeat just because I can't afford new ones?
I don't need what they got But that doesn't mean my life's crumbs
For my fruit may not come from some great factory but really, I'm so much more than those sums.
And so, my crystal-eyed child of dust as we watch the moon swift fade to rust do not be frightened, nor concerned for all things alter, in their turn and there is nothing that we can grasp that won't be taken, that will ever last for in this kingdom of castled sand only change right reigns the land even as man evolves, through science made and our souls progress, not just blankly saved our only hope is to from this life detach and by letting go, the eternal, catch and so, my child, as you peer into sky to look beyond it, fix your eyes, and fly
until I gave into its commands and missing all those opportunities that buzz within honeyed land I sought to expel the salt within me to wash the sins' demands But then I found that callous covered me sealed the wound with its strands-- and that is why you see me culling me, digging out, sifting out the scabs upon my hand; the salt within my sand.
I think fate tied us together by strings our ribcage the root of our ribboning and each step we take is like a reeling spools spinning, bringing us to a greeting
and tho' the sisters sigh, (while sharpenin' their shears for a shearing) we need not fear their wile- for you and I are beyond their tricks and tithes as we will weave a web of life with our threads of light which neither scissors nor scythe can ever sever-- nor will it die.
we climb the mountain and we cross the boundless seas our quest for meaning
Personal note: Starting today I will be on week long vacation with only limited access to the internet. Although I will continue writing one poem a day for the next week, I will only be able to post them all online next Thursday, 24 November 2011. I apologise for any inconvenience. Just consider it a short fast before you gorge yourself on a poetic Thankgiving feast. I promise there will be plenty of ham to go around.