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Brent Foster Poem
For wary minds that tend to creep,
the weary mind it so does keep.
A beacon like a lightning rod,
The unbeknownst it tends to sod.
For in its dreary wakened sleep,
another question so does creep.
Without restraint, this thought to bear,
defines me as plain unaware.
Where do I find the left behind,
when it was only state of mind?
The consequence which we define,
of disembarking unto time.
Copyright © Brent Foster | Year Posted 2019
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Brent Foster Poem
Songbird, play me a tune.
What would you like to hear?
Tell me how you grace a worm.
Well, seeing as you have no fun,
in that which you do not run from;
afraid to leave a job undone,
leaving without supervision:
You're melancholy, so to speak:
from your head, down to your feet.
When innocence is bold to me,
I comply egregiously.
My name is not nefarious,
nor spiteful, proud, or pixidust.
Your type is rare, so be aware
of beauty here, for you to bear.
You think in perfect harmony,
as product of adversity.
You know no grief or floating leaf.
You know no animosity.
Your not as beautiful as me-
you walking, talking, dictionary.
Here's some truth you do not need.
But maybe you can now believe;
in colors glorious of gold,
avenues to now be told.
There's treasured life found from above, which witnessed god in you as love.
Those floating wings of servitude,
Are angels watching over you.
There's no preclude in what to do.
Just know the sky is always blue.
As for the worms, we start by prying
there to greet us when arriving.
Just to be clear, we dont mind minding,
finding there what God has hiding.
Nature really does describe,
as giving way to nice surprise.
We do not try to compromise
in things that lend out in disguise.
We're animals of God's green Earth,
since introduction. Hence pure birth.
Were pretty different, you and I.
This? Our way of saying hi.
You wondered what I'd have to say,
believing in simplicity
And things unlike what you hold dear,
Are nature's bliss from far and near.
Just like the trees survive in breeze:
Our nature is but what you see.
A part of life, when thunder sounds:
showing us a place to ground,
Among our trees, we plot with ease.
In green like all things,
as we've seen.
And godli creatures, in their strife,
demonstrate this sacred ease.
They're indisputable in life,
from which they never will concede.
So who am I to disagree,
with everlasting things i see.
I love them as i'll always be,
in between amounts of green.
Your answer does come naturally-
Perception of our tendency;
To just agree and aim to please,
for that which comes so naturally!
Copyright © Brent Foster | Year Posted 2019
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Details |
Brent Foster Poem
Sitting on a log
Where we didn't find the frog,
The frog that wouldn't bound;
so wasn't there to make a sound.
Exhibitting its mound.
It would have been a song,
resolving of known wrong.
But it was there, in what was near
unknown to us a clear.
Now under there, beneath our log:
spins dreams of disregard.
Completion, filling what was wrong,
interpreted through dreams and song.
The water flows and ever-so,
towards ways which we couldn't go
A silent smoothly natural wisp,
sharing for pure time with it.
We see no wrong, we witness strong,
Fueling energy among-
How we see a day to day,
complete in similarity.
Those streams below that log we know,
describe nothing but what's to show;
a time we shared with what we know…
as natures convoluted glow.
Together on that log we sat.
We understood as separate.
We started something real serene,
acknowledged thereof certainty;
that once we leave for different things-
the time we shared is still serene.
Copyright © Brent Foster | Year Posted 2019
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