When I walk through a room and
If the silence is too cunning and too strong
I recall a poem: I once read Bird of Texas
I usually let my eyes zoom in on a target
Most of the time, it’s the exit
With the red lights, or the doors with the double bolts

Poetry writing is like double bolts locks
We lock our thoughts and emotions inside ourselves
and worried about what others might think of us
I seriously doubt that Dr. Seuss worried about his unique way of rhyming

Do not like them,
Sam-I-am.
I do not like
green eggs and ham.

Same here with me, I don’t care if you like my poems or not
My eventuated submission: or my manner of speaking.
Is your way of critiquing gratifying Sam I am?

Do not like them,
Sam-I-am.
I do not like
green eggs and ham.

When life throws its everything at you
Crushing your plans, throwing its weight
Cling on to something, there is still love
The door has not closed, it's never too late.

When you think you've been left on life's shelf
Where you think life has passed on by
Cling on to the never ending dream
There is still an extra arrow from cupid to fly.

There are more fish in the sea than you think
It is still worth the extra effort to throw the bait
So cast extra line, don't throw away the key
the door is still open for love, it is never too late.

Because I don't pay-
Any attention to what you say,
Doesn't mean I don't care.

Through a clear window,
you never know what you'll see,
perhaps life through glass

Introduction
I stroll through green fields and realise I am home.
I bump against soft sandalwood: a fence –
And hang my head and weep

For Ginsberg, Whitman, and all the other cats clawing for tender acceptance
Strolling through ashen fields in rainbow night
Tugging on tender trestles of old mother crop of hair south
Casting to sky thine eye as black and white lights
Of rainbow night do fizzle and pop and – Oops!
Great incomparable fusion atom generator on the fritz
Once more the Centre of Cosmos choking and clouded with splutter.
As thine eye doth dissolve and revolve and resolve and see, from vantage point on high:
O Hell! O Eternal abyss of Chiaro-night, I am surrounded!
Thy Holy field lies cut and sliced by old tree corpses – lined up in terrible order by tender hand imbued
Thou might turn and run and screech impaled or *whisp inhaled by gasping trees, by dying trees, by dead trees who breathe.
And spat upon the lawn whence thou were born,
No matter the crop nor scenery.

When they buried me in the dark, I was frightened.
I didn’t like the taste of earth.
And I was so thirsty.
Some people are no good with plants,
Even the hardiest shrubs
Wither and wilt in their careless hands.
You aren’t one of them.
When no-one else could see,
You took such good care of me.
Water, warmth and love.
These are my needs, but I had no voice
With which to ask; without you
I would have remained inert
A lost life, in the dirt.
See now, how I blossom?
Just a shoot, but I will astound them all
With my beauty, in time.
Thank you for caring for me,
Thank you for helping me to grow.