"How do you continue on," you asked,
"poem after poem, song after song?"
not understanding me and my cast,
where my part, my attention belongs.
what is past or future or what thought,
whether my hair is stormily knotted,
or brushed, shining, perfectly smooth.
I will weep a sunken life and die, for
if put in a cubicle without paper, pen,
time, I will not be myself who you bore.
- Too much Shakespeare, not enough Zen :)
From you, I love things good, things green,
know hope and kindness, where Zion is seen.
To my mom, whose enthusiasm for life,
glows inside me and from that and heaven
springs my music and poetry. Eternal thanks!