Komorebi Land Where Poems Are Made

KOMOREBI The Land Where Poems Are Made Chorus chords of Sounds mutter, iambically Especially forming tongues throughout the ages To give birth to rhyme in metered rages Ancient rants, bellow from the depths Of hollowed souls, needing to be refueled As a lamp that all too quickly burned its wick. So, yes, I toss and turn with loads, puns unsought And words, dance wildly in my sleepless mind. Yet, drifting bass-backwards through the woods, and weeds of thought. Ah yes, I am chasing dreams and nightmares too. Hoping doors will open in the whimsical worlds in time. That I may be the wise woman that writes the poem; Whose poetic flute plays the tunes that pied the poets’ minds Mimes leading them to that open space- Where the light shines through the cove of trees; Where ditties and missives, are the leaves that glisten. Where rhymes, and poems nod and dance in the breeze, And hang like wisdom’s fruit off grand poetic trees. We pluck, we eat, we deliver that which we seek to write. Remembering KOMOREBI … We then finally, peacefully, now spirit-filled, we sleep.!