Up Early Picking Peaches From His Tree
Eyes golden zenith holds mysteries galore
like a blue streak feeds itself doubly blind
in its wakings an old barn without doors
the farm animals simply do not mind.
Nobody saw, for sure nobody cares
The farmer milks the cows so thirsty is he
Digging for gold he does not ever dare
Up early picking peaches from his tree
Wife a lovely maiden, her love she shares
Farm is not much, twenty acres and a mule
Envy no, he thinks they do not compare
Beside he has a pretty daughter so like a jewel
Nothing like rich man's iron gate horse farm
Farmer lives simply does nobody harm.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
Aug 11th, 1971
Childhood is a stranger, taken away,
pushed into games we do not want to play.
Of all the battles that I have fought it is this one which always surrounds me,
punchdrunk, forever looking the wrong way with eyes closed.
Life would be wonderful were it not for those 3am wakings,
those naked lunch moments,
where the camera pulls out and zooms in on life,
and I'm in the foreground.
This camera close-up always takes me by surprise,
I am never ready.
What is its obsession,
does it want my confession?
And what did I do anyway?
I just happen to be here, everyday.
None of this "blame" is mine,
in this cruel act, this pantomime.
This invented game of cheap charades
and I'll burn down your house of cards,
but not today.
Today the games are mine to play,
Now I will keep you locked away.
I'll keep you secret, I'll keep you near,
Now you'll live in endless fear.
One night the truth will creep into your room,
at 3am,
and slide under your covers.
And I along with all the others.
We'll use our words like a loaded gun,
you'll go to hell for what you've done.
Are dreams a false reality, deceptions of a slumbering mind?
Or are these waking moments dreams, waking dreams all silver lined?
And when we close our eyes to sleep, do we leave the real behind?
Or is this but another dream, that wide eyed wakings find?
Shooting stars burning across the sky
writing a trail of love letters
against the black, but twinkling night.
Night animals sing praises
to your lovely words.
An owl hoots applause
to the depth of your thoughts.
The moon caresses the suns' reflections.
You renew the words
and say hello again
while
the night air breathes a warm
passionate embrace
with the feelings you have conveyed.
Wakings
renew our strong bond
as the beauty of nature surrounds us.
Another star writes wonderful words of love,
and we blow kisses to the warm wind.
Smell the freshness of life.
Early darkness wakings
during a spring day sleep
As I drift between the
wakings of the real world
and the dreamings of the faux pas,
my mind begins to...wander
onto things more trivial.
"Did I forget to clean the toaster?
Is the sink still on?
Was that glass resting on a coaster?"
My mind wanders on and on.
Thoughts progress more philosophically,
as I wonder,
"Is world-wide peace a viable reality?"
Visions begin to blur together, as my mind lays down to rest,
As I yawn (begrudgingly), thinking "Did I pass that Biology test?"
And of the rest?
As I drift between the wakings of the real world
and the dreamings of the faux pas,
I realize,
"It is here that I belong,
it is here that imagination is law."
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