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Regrets
A seed dropped in the soil grows,
Dirt around nature's toes.
First a stalk and then the leaves,
The solid base of a plant to be.
The flower blossoms sweet and mild,
Develops slow, an innocent child.
Corrupted by a world gone wrong,
Sour notes in a sweet love song.
Next year another bloom,
Stronger now, escapes its doom.
There it stands sweet but strong,
Ready for what the world brings on.
A bumbling bee with blossom mates,
Drinks the nectar, nature's fate.
But in his moment of paradise,
Sweet nectar here does not suffice.
Determined to find the source of taste,
He digs but deeper in clumsy haste.
Outside to him remains unseen,
Petals drop onto the green.
The heart is reached, but flavor lost,
Truth is found, but at what cost.
Determined on his valiant quest,
The bee has lost what he loves best.
Without sweet nectar the bee is doomed,
To exist in a world full of gloom.
His spirit withers, his soul decays,
A miserable state he lives out his days.
Weak and old he does exist,
Full of none but emptiness.
What a waste, perfection disappeared,
The sad result of unfounded fears.
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The Sculptor
The clay is cut.
Earth takes form.
A soul inspirited fresh and clean.
The clay is wet.
The world adorn,
Molded slowly, an animate being.
A journey starts,
Fresh on its way,
Great adventures yet unseen.
Living art,
God's own to play,
A tiny piece of the great machine.
Time moves on,
A constant chore.
Life's sweet juices slowly lost.
A sweet young fawn,
A weathered boar.
Transition slowly at great cost.
The clay is dry.
The figure stands.
There unchanging never more.
In the eye,
A wise old man.
Pieces strewn across the floor.
The journey done.
Juice no more.
The maker satisfied.
The clay cracks.
The figure breaks.
Empty now inside.
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Ode to a City Boy
I wish I were an old wise man
With a great and long beard
And great, strong, soft hands
A great ability to hear.
I would live in the mountains
With my wife or alone
I would live like a Sultan
By the streams of my home.
I would grow my own food
With bread, beer, and berries
And hunting would be good
Killing when necessary.
But instead I live a life
Of talk, time, and money
With distress and strife
With the code of society.
Too bad for me
For I love trees
The cackling streams
Stars we see
A calm, cool breeze
Rains do please
As so do seas
That is where I'd like to be
Old, wise, and free.
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