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.