The steam from tea in foreignThe steam from tea in foreign lands must steamThe same as tea brewed in our little potBut you would travel miles to touch a dreamBathed in distortion, just like steam, and hot.The leaves of trees in foreign lands must coolThe same as trees that stand in our back lotBut you would trek to tap an ancient poolDraped with wisteria. Nice camera shot.The eyes of girls in foreign lands must laughThe same as girls you've known at home, a spotSo small how can the eye convey the chaffIn one, or wheat, but love scores love a lot.You find the mystery in that travel spot,Bathed in distortion, just like steam, and hot.
I am the alpha maleI am the alpha male, I will annoy,Avenge, antagonize, appropriate,Attack; antipathy does not alloy,And if it is required, annihilate.Attach an 'A' to all morality,Subsume my other goals to feeding power.With simple fear maintain totality.I see no other way, and when my hourhas come, I do not mind to die alone.What lesser males and females do astoundsMe every time: allow, accept, atone,Attenuate, amend, sometimes no soundsAt all when at their end I dominate.So hush. My will, I will accentuate.I am the beta woman, man or child.I have no plan to turn the tables round,No way to stop the strong when they go wildExcept to run or hide or hunker down.Sometimes a champion will emerge and leadBut then I get confused by champions' talk.I cannot tell what things will help my needAnd don't know whom to trust and when to balk.I feel there's not enough to go around.To ask to share is some philosophyThat they say's worse than falling to the ground.I guess I get what
I like to thinkI like to think you'd welcome me and setThe table with those glasses with a hintOf green, and woven placemats that have metBoth green and blue, a plaid with silver glint.The salad first (I know, American),When you would say, please tell me how you've been.And hearing truth, you'd grimace like a manIn pain, and nod your head at all I'd seen.Now with the soup, you'd ask about the smallAnd trifling details that comprise a day.The interest shown would not be feigned at all,Attention glued to me, no topic-sway.The pasta, bread and pots-de-crème are greatAnd coffee served, you never said, how late!Just yesterday I set the welcome matAnd planned a meal and took a recipeFrom that old plastic box. I pictured chatWhere you explain and I would just agree.So glad to have you here at last and seeYour animated face, your stories servedLike courses complementing wine or tea,And every story mentally preserved.And would we tire of meals, realityReplaced by narrati
For all the workersFor all the workers in the world who workToo hard, whose backs are sore, whose minds are tired,When twenty-four by seven means you jerkAwake to worry if you'll still be firedIn spite of compromising mental healthAnd heart and veins and hope of simple rest.You work so hard but can't increase your wealthEnough to stop. You give your best, your bestIs past. The slavery of the worker comesAgain, in guise of productivity.The body, proud and numb, how soon succumbsTo stress, the final inactivity.For all the workers in the world, some sleep,Some rest, and maybe equity to keep.
A journey that you takeA journey that you take without a fee,A journey you did not decide to start,A journey you can't stop, no special plea,A journey that is whole and never part.It's fuzzy when you start and when it ends,And in between it's clear and often sharp.Sometimes you think you understand the trendsAnd then again it's cloudy, blurry, dark.The trip continues when you sleep or doze.The plans you make don't seem to change the course,And whether trying counts, you must suppose,But even trying can't succeed by force.Do not despair, for here's the tip to tripThrough time: companions who will grab and grip.
A few days pastA few days past, it was anticipate.Nine months is long. We would accelerate.Instead, we fill the time, alleviateThe wait. Concern and joythey alternate.Now see how beautiful begins with "B"!And so do blessings, blankets, blink and bask,And baskets, buckets, balanceoh and Bre!It's all about a baby, if you ask.Excitement damped with caution, care and calm,All hands in service to this little face.The calm is punctuated with alarm!With hunger gone, he now returns to grace.Hope tries again. We come along with glee.Old story, new: a holy family.
If I am a horseIf I'm a horse, I'll fit myself with bitand bridle, pulling hard, with foaming tongue.If I'm a cat, I'll pad about or sitwith claws retracted, even if I'm young.If I'm a dog, I'll chase the ball but letit go when alpha dog says put it down.If I'm a goat, I won't let brambles getentwined. I'll let them clip my cashmere gown.If I'm a bee, I'll stick to industryand won't get mad when honey's scooped away.If I'm a bird, I'll sing and find a treeto call my own, and chirp at dawn each day.If I'm a butterfly, how shall I fly?Without cocoon, with gladness, till I die.
A great idea to grow in ringsA great idea to grow in rings aroundA central core, and grow each year in spiteOf what the weather sends. Below the groundThe same thing, down instead of up, brings might.I tried the rings but went in circles roundAnd round until my head was blank and light.Then when I tried to think a thought, I foundI just repeated dead-end thoughts. Good night!I took to heart the putting down of rootsAnd tried to find stability in depthBut all I found was being anchored shootsThe possibility of change. Inept.In rings and roots I'd hoped to feel more free.I guess I wasn't meant to be a tree.
So hard to say at least someSo hard to say, at least some have survived,As if the dead were some experiment,Statistics hiding stories, curves derivedFrom metrics without feelings, no intent.Too much imagination is requiredTo put a face on wrongful death each time.For those who've wept before and are so tired,Why would they borrow yours and make the climbTo see a wretched view they've seen before?So now you know how history builds veneersOf callus, how events that made us sorePut cryptic smiles on cheeks that once had tears.An army of those tearless cheeks now needsTo rise. But see, in Flanders fields grow weeds.