My stories are contrived from concealed figments of
imaginary pieces of the real estate of my mind
that stalk the subconscious synapses of paradox,
unfold layers of evocative reflections of experience,
journey through poignant particles of brainwaves that
peddle through the thick atmosphere to empty space,
seeking time bomb snippets set to detonate at moment's notice.
Minutes ago, words did not appear on this paper,
now language is squeezed n' transformed
into poetic birth of another doggerel.
If I were a woman, I would breast feed this infant
so that he/she would manifest to completion.
But, I am a man whose innate ability to nurture
lay in the soil over which I toil each spring
as I till, seed, water, weed, reap, sow my paradise.
In stillness, my lucid mind wanders inward,
convolutes, then circumvents reality,
logic disappears, reason reflects observation,
a flicker of perception is ignited,
lyrics pour from philosophical vessel
onto slippery roads I travel, paths once forsaken,
given up for dead, only to rise in the sunshine.
The sky is a cloudless incandescent blue.
The 80-degree temperature is the perfect palatial pallet.
The sultry wind crawls 5mph from the warm gulf waters.
Swan families are floating in file beneath the boat dock.
Married eagles are nesting in needles atop the pine trees,
Playful squirrels are fidgeting up bark of the palm trees.
Poking, peaking, long-beak White Ibis' aerate the lawn.
Poetry has the last word.