I am a finely tuned machine
Following a rugged routine
But I smell musty
And my joints are rusty
I think I need some Valvoline.
When you want to achieve a great goal
Do not think that achieving is impossible
Such an attitude will make you damn weak
Believe that you can earn victory surely
Take all those relevant measures positively
And keep a record of all your great efforts
Chalk out a plan to fulfill your golden mission
Never bring a break to your sincere attempt
Do not convey that to everybody foolishly
As most of the people are not interested
They may even discourage you ignorantly
Analyze your skill and then you decide
If you feel that you can surely gain success
Plunge into the deal putting heart and soul
Have not a meek second-idea to dominate
Once you have firmly established your aim
Human beings are equally bestowed with skill
None is superior or great compared to another
Proceed ahead by exercising gifted intelligence
Reap rich rewards by deploying your genius.
Am I a fool for what I do?
I inhabit souls, and more than one.
I have reason to believe
That if I cease to grieve
Or give the affection thou greedily breathe
I shall never feel bereaved
If I lose one soul
That was meant for me,
But was writhing, with a spear in the headless throat, singing in your name.
A more polished soul is one without clutter.
One good soul removes the other
My old memory, a blameless brother
My present, a shameful mother.
A more polished soul, finely ground.
One with the dust, so wind is found!
'Kinetic conundrums,' such a finely turned phrase, or
perchance 'effervescent rhododendrons' -- their glories ablaze
The Beatles' walrus cu-cu-ca-chu'd
Frankie boy scooby-dooby-dooed
I'd finish this poem, but it might come unglued
Within thou secret heart I dared to peek,
but entry to thee twas not meant to be.
Searching for answers that doth I do seek
No avail, thy heart locked and I no key.
I'd oft pondered what in thee would I find.
Thy love for me, wrapped in finely spun silk?
I pray no tidings of a feckless mind.
Some hindreth fault of your heritage ilk.
If only my treasure you wouldst plunder,
In my virgin garden, you shall n'ere pluck
If thee shall not put my heart asunder
This maid shall be the doe and you her buck.
O! Sweet life, hurry forth thy hands of time.
Shouldst death sing to thee from bird on the wing,
Captured then I shall n'ere put word to rhyme
Tis death shall rob my voice of words to sing.
Wrapped in finely spun silk, love hath no fear
In my verse, we shall e're be young, my dear.
Out on a limb
a small bird sits
As the wind blows cold
from the north
the bird begins to sing
Winter sun above
in this waning time of
the year
there are not many birds
singing
in this or any other garden
However, this small bird sings
as laughing voices
in the far distance
are blown by the breeze
the small bird sings
piping with its small voice
And as the ground grows cold
we take what comfort we can
In the waning of the year
a small bird sings
piping with its small voice
Clouds are forming in the sky
the wind blows them closer
As we anticipate another cold day
as a small bird sings
piping with its small voice
sweet sounds to welcome us
before the freeze sets in
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