Posted by Michael Ordu Ross Saint-More on
The breeze of autumn descends on the tree,
looking like hills ,born to recede as it sheds its leaves, each autumnal day.
In the hope of leaving the tree,stolid and bare,with non to stare, at what once held its audience captive, now a votive comment of an earlier splendour, in an earlier generation.
I have chanced upon many a fair lass,
with wheels on her heart, to move from passion to dereliction, if the love game is not played aright.
For a lass can be likened to a flower and the flower to the tree,leaving and moving in its metamorphological approach to stimulus and growth,
while a lass is sensual,
fertility is her gift to the world,
her gift to the unborn,
male or female,
or male and female,
to the world they come,
she ever so sensual,
he ever so sensitive,
at thier arrival the world is re-born,
can I say a prayer,
one that isnt dependent,
fake miracles and false self deluded persons,
no a prayer, not un- like a toast,
to boast to the good life,
with out being cynical,
and question its existence,
but to totally accept its rewards, and
to have and to spare and feed the 5000,
at my spare time ,and at my own time,
Good deeds marching on, and waging,
the never ending war against poverty,
Then the is a rebirth of do-gooders,
those who will not rest, until, the entire populace,
is clothed with lace,and not lice,
mice, or traps to catch the bush variety.
I want to maintain as such,
at much,
at lunch, at munch,
a hunch, a bunch,
a touch, a torch,
shining in the midst of the miasma of pain,
having seen,
been,lean,cringe at what, nothing,
button up, cotton on, mutton or beef,
its a brand new thing,
the never ending,unyielding, un-ending re-birth.end