Poems 3

With the wind whistling at my window,
And the sun shining on my face,
I'm watching the grass in wonder,
As it bows to the wind's fast pace.

And I wonder if I myself,
Am like that grass in the field below.
Do I bow to the will of fortune?
Or do I get back up and blow?


And so we see ourselves searching,
For the sunset in the sky.
Straining, bending, reaching,
For what's already gone by.

Are we not supposed to look,
To the sky where rainbows are?
If not, then why are they up there,
Always just a tad too far?

And is the wind so elusive?
Does it really evade our grasp?
Or are we just moving too quickly,
Not bothering to see it go past?

Spread forth like a bouquet of flowers,
Our choices in life are arrayed.
But we choose to ignore them,
And live Real Life instead.

The wonders, they sprout from the horizon,
To the farthest reaches of our mind.
But if we do not reach out and grab them,
They will leave us far behind.


There is a reigning monarch,
Arrayed in red and gold,
Harbinger of the white,
And precursor to the cold.

He rules but three in twelve,
For with siblings doth he share.
The remaining nine in twelve he waits,
Taking time to prepare.

His crown is many mountains,
Spanning breadth and time untold.
His scepter is the wind that whips,
Bringing new behind the old.

With absolute command of all,
Without a single care,
This king rules for his time,
Then steps down for the year.


Money's Time

Money is Time,
So they say.
How much value,
Do we put on Today?
Can hours
Be bought and sold with dollars?
Can lives,
Be bartered with time?
Does our time
Always equal or money?
Or do we always end up
Wishing for more?
We go through life,
Without a fight,
Because we feel
We cannot win.
When Money's Time comes,
Will it go peacefully,
Or die kicking and screaming,
To the End?


They say things go up in value,
When their creator is dead and gone.
Is that the reason we don't value our lives,
Because God has been here all along?

Floating on gossamer wings,
soaring through the air . . .

I flit my way through the spring,
having not a care . . .

Landing in soft flower buds,
but flying on I must . . .

Sleeping babes awake in beds,
as I sprinkle my fairy dust . . .