One of the travesties of humankind

Is the failure to communicate

When they have the presence of mind

And then it becomes too late.


No apology is offered if my words make no sense

To those who care not to understand.

Rest assured, nothing is more deliberate than the pretense

Of poetry written by the hand.


When I’m in the mood,

The words find easily their own rhythm and rhyme.

Wh’er in a crowded place or in homely solittude,

All a poet needs is the inspiration and the time.


I was not born yesterday

But perhaps so in a different era

When Santa Claus rode a reindeer-pulled sleigh

And the values of literature were held dearer.


 Speak, vocalise and make a choice

If only to be heard.

How sad would ever be the silent voice

Of the songless springtime bird.


I have no quirks or qualms

For writing this monotonic diarrohea.

Language, after all, farms

Only the vocabulary of yesteryear.


Do not dare to never speak

When you have the thrust

Because words, words are unique

For that everlasting trust.


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