This stone is a memory
and memories are not truth.
I carry these stones in a box,
dripping nostalgia all over my shoes.*
The box fills faster than I can make room,
old rocks settle down below.
Some get stuck between my toes,
as I limp toward another show.
It's already Tuesday again.
I've got a pile of Tuesdays stashed away,
wearing themselves down to sand,
rattling the box with every shake.
Running my finger along the edges
for the last time—I'll know,
I'll divine them across the floor
and see what remains.
Being sad
Isn't bad
It's okay to cry
Once in a while
You just feel like you have to sigh
All your problems just pile
Depression is like recession
You can't keep filling up a jar
Not expecting it to overflow
It can only hold so much
When you have to stop you'll know
When the water passes the rim
All your emotions will come out
You can't stop that on a whim
But youu can control if you pout
Don't be afraid of crying
No one wants you lying
Babs the bear collected colorful leaves that fell like tears
Her breath gave them a sheen, and kept them fresh for years
She had a pile of them in reds, blues, yellows, greens, and yellows.
Strategically placing them in her cave; she played with the little fellows.
a pile here, a pile there
flows down our hallway and up our stairs
wafting about is Buddy’s hair
it’s in my nose, it’s in the air
pretty soon my dog will be all bare
while his huge fur balls chase me here and there
Alas, all this pile, has not got much sense,
Ha’pence for all the lot;
Had but a clue I been taught,
I’d not compose utter rot.
The plane pierced into the pile, exploded loudly, Human fleshes every where .
It is time for us to embrace our differences, enjoy each other’s cultures
A time to rejoice in the diversity God gave each of us to admire and revere
We need to gather together, teach each other our mantras and our songs
Tell our folk stories, our relative stories, our experience stories.
To pile ourselves into a stone wall, not to keep people out
But as an invitation to others to bring us into their light;
To share their stones and stories, unity is love and love is unity.
Rotted wood splinters
Shiny beetles run amok
Mushrooms guard the door
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
old and alone,
sitting on a wood pile,
making it his own..
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
listening and wondering.
Why has the sky grown dark?
Could that be thundering?
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
here comes the rain..
Fur now soaking wet thru an
orange matted mane..
Ratty cat, ratty cat,
drenched as can be.
Are you waiting there for
a free meal from me?
Pile of dried branches
fuel for October’s bonfires—
Haven for wildlife
Can I be exonerated
For the crimes I never commited?
There’s no one to ask, I’m afraid
Which doesn’t make me uplifted
And its nowhere to go, I’m unseen
Cause my passport is shining too bright
Unwelcomed, I see the screen
But never I saw the light,
Of that special hour, before the evening
Covers your land, my reader
No rest for the wicked, believe me
Wicked isn’t me, but a leader
Of lemmings with human faces
Though I don’t belong to that file
I never cared for rat races
But for you I’m of common pile
Concerning about your peace
You cannot see what you’re not shown
It’s not an eyesight disease
But a mental thing, still unknown.
When bottom of pile
there are those who are on trial
this has been our style
birds fall hunger-wise...
before
cold winters shortages...
today a woodpecker ate...
such an
overfill it had to lay on the...
feeder for ten minutes till...
its throat
cleared so that it could fly...
it was such a 'pile he ate' that...
it's
called a 'pileated' woodpecker...
stans sand
The words are waterfalls down the pages,
Fluidly descriptive of time and place;
Pieces of text from different ages,
The words finding meaning in their own space.
They live in the books within the covers
And tell their stories of life through the years ..
Of family, friends and long-lost lovers,
Of lifetime experience, hopes and fears.
The books bring to mind a life at its best,
Simple and quiet, relaxed and at peace;
Those pages of print giving times of rest
Recalling the hours that will never cease.
Memories of times piled high on the shelf,
Those days to be shared or just for yourself.
The poor man is still in grief;
He was being linked with a thief!
A real big blow to A Chief…
Thrice he’d tried a spiced-up beef
But the glad bites turned out brief;
“Spreading wide is wrong belief;
To that beef holds no relief.”
He’d be leaving for some reef,
There to not be reaching beef:
Agreed place of his exile;
To stay there not for a while…
No one wants again his guile…
His case files: Stacked-high pile.
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