When you be busy getting
to where you want to be going
don't be neglecting
the path you're now roaming
or before you know
it your now will be stolen,
other paths will go unknown,
other mysteries will never be shown,
other yous will never be grown.
And when you arrive you could be regretting
what's the good things you have now
when you get to where you be going.

The humankind was never kind to them.

From their peaceful Pliocene graves
they were dug out, doggedly read,
their skulls and bones laid bare
gorged upon every finest details
all the apparent lunacy
directed to determine a link
always close yet too far.

Roaming that placid basin
they could not dream
to be a mystery past two million years
crazily pursued to be cracked open.

They have been branded Nutcracker Man.

These Holocene men are truly nuts.

Clatter clutter on the pave, feet on the run
furrowed brows faces grave, life is no fun
home to work work to home, time is so mean
to and fro on the track, heads in a spin.

Red for the pedestrian, green for the car
quicker may save the day, sights are a blur
conspires the digit light, ticks ever slow
holds up adds to fright, the cruel red glow.

Just on the other side, a few blocks more
you are late again, ears hear the roar
had they only known, the hurdles on the way
the daily mad struggle, to save the day's pay.

The road is clear now, on a quick glance
here's the time to move, grab the prized chance
clatter clutter on the pave, feet on the run
blood spreads on the tar, redder in the sun.

I've had enough
of the words of rhyme
Locked away behind
the bars of stanzas
doing time

All the hopes
and wanna be dreams . . .
Just more nightmares
with chilling screams

No I had it !
and I don't want anymore
I don't want someone knocking with words to implore

Go take your metre ,
Yellow pencils number four
I don't want to hear you
knocking on my door

You can go post
and share with the world
Shelly , Keats , Byron . . .
They all make me feel sterile

A sonnet for your bonnet
Haiku for beret
You can put a quill to it
Go have your good Shakespearean
day

The hot breath of the desert
Is too tired of loving
The seprable sand!

Lay the edge across the page
and cut the words in two

Separate the vowels from the verbs
and eliminate the pronouns too

There is an objective in the adjective
fleshy skin parts the red red Sea

If the emotions in motion cause commotions
they must be extracted
immediately

Never before such perception so clear
Picking splinters like scabs off the cross

So what never was will be no more
blood tastes salty in a memory's horde