Short thoughts find their way
To my inner seeking of a poem
To form a few lines for today
So, maybe my inner thoughts will open
To longer poems I can say
Because I want to make some more headway
Writing continuously for another poem.
Dogs can’t write poetry
For they have paws
With no way to grasp a pen.
When they speak words come out
As barks and woofs.
Dogs can’t write poetry
For they sleep so much
Throughout the day.
They are too busy with sleep, eating and play;
To stop and think of what to say.
Owners can write their dog’s poetry
For dogs can tell by their actions and habits.
Throu my dog can’t write poetry
She can do it through her action
And many quirky habits she possess.
No cellphones brought through
Mint doors to watch; take tour of
Money being made
One old single street
Still has cobble stones where you
Walk historic path
Behind glass; not touched
Has a large crack in its frame
From time long ago
By men now famous in room–
Walk streets at night, find
Historic ghosts prowling where
nation was founded
When I was a child there were monsters under the bed
Monsters lurked unseen waiting to be fed
I dare not place small feet down at night
For who knew what would be in their sight
Covers snug around me so I couldn’t see
What lurked below me
For a child terrified of the unseen
Hoping they wouldn’t invade my dreams
Now I’m grown but still there might be
Monsters lurking under my bed waiting for me
Distance rumble I do not hear
As I sit near windowsill
Gaze lost in mindless thought
I hear the inner echo of my mind
Telling me there is something out there
But, old fragile husk of my body
Senses that there is nothing to fear
I sit lost in time to all around
Not knowing what distance rumble has come
My body has quell itself to the end
But, yet my mind wants to continue on
Hoping the body might come back as one
Thoughts bombard my mind like many chirping birds
Talking among themselves hiding in dense full leaves of trees.
Non stop they pluse my mind with never-ending words
Of what I should do;
Or say next.
Only consolation sometimes is when I go to sleep
They stop for few hours to breathe before they start anew.
How can one manage all these fighting thoughts
That fling themselves upon me in constant stream?
There is not much time in a day
To get to each and every thought
That passes through my mind.
I come into the peace of wild things
The dawn now breaks on you, the dark is over,
Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
For these have governed in our lives,
And yet of death it giveth me occasion.
When from a thousand skies
Set free from present sorrow,
Would come at last to God’s great town,
That leads away from thee —
They’ve dealt with life and been tempered by it.
“The peace of wild things” by Wendell Berry
“The Peaceful Shepherd” by Robert Frost
“Rest in Peace” by Claude McKay
“I. Peace” by Rupert Brooke
“I Find No Peace” by Sir Thomas Wyatt
“If pain for peace prepares” by Emily Dickinson
“Joy and Peace in Believing” by William Cowper
“The Rose Of Peace” by William Butler Yeats
“Oh Future! thou secreted peace” by Emily Dickinson
“Promise Of Peace” by Robinson Jeffers