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Poem
Do you hear the chimes,
Of the poem’s rhymes,
Also those without rhymes,
How they reflect the times,
The elements of truth within eachofus,
Inspiteofus,   trying to getoutofus!!
So that all may see,
Twiddle Dee,
Of the mind, you see!

So poets hold your position,
It is your only opposition,
To a world, in peril,
Love’s knowledge will make it’s stand,
As only love can!

A true poem is truth,
No matter how loose,
Is from truth’s booth,
Don’t try to, up it spruce,
For it is cutting your true  potential loose,
From  mind control, golden  goose!

The spirit of heart,
Will always set the mind apart,
If the mind doesn’t start,
To be a part,
Of love, the heart’s start!

We are in the world,
But not of it’s peril!
The world grossly complex,
They say, too large to fail,
But it’s you and me they quell!
While the economy is sagging,
Many jump on their band wagon!

More tax, is faxed,
To the very max!
But the flop, is throwing money at the top,
Of the tree,
Of the economy,
As they say oh gee,
Taxes are free,
Are you kidding me!

By common nature you see,
To fertilize a tree,
And it is, love’s principle, you see,
A simplicity,
Which is the basis of all, reality,
As in agriculture, they taught me,
You fertilize the bottom of a tree!

But our leaders, you see,
Fertilize the top,
Cause that’s all they got,
Just the mind’s flop,
All this must stop!

They don’t give a flute’s toot,
About the root,
Of the tree,
For that’s you and me!
But the power of the bloom,
Will very soon,
Let the wild branches swoon!


Love is, our intelligent prune,
Let’s don’t be goons!
More taxes, more stress on the root,
That’s such a flute!
If we the people will take it,
Then by more law they will make it!

Meanwhile mind’s theology,
Is running down the leg of we,
The twiddle dee,
Of you and me!

Now we must prune,
Very soon,
Before we bloom!
For the bloom of unrighteous mammon,
Will cause the world great famine!
Like an unrighteous salmon,
Going down the stream man,
Which will spoil the root plan,
Which will not stand,
Being it’s built on the sand!
It’s the top that’s too large,
We must purge!

The wind,
Will begin,
That will topple this tree,
The economy!
Sooner is a bitter, better,
For later is the hater,
Not the lover!

johnmosesfreeman@yahoo.com
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