My Poems Are Like Whispers Into The Lover's Ears
Let the wise debate the right and the wrong, The possible and the probable, While the lovers peddle hope in a barrow, To create a better tomorrow.
My poems are like whispers into my lover's ear, Only to be heard and understood by her, Without any meaning to the wise. It's like the gibberish we prattle Into the ears of a baby when we cradle And rock her on our laps, understood only by her, Without any meaning to the wise. It's like the song of the lonely bird in the stillness of afternoons, Perceptible only by the soul in anguish, Without any meaning to the wise. It's like the buzzing of the honey-bees, As they jump from one flower to the other in creation frenzy, Welcome only by the flowers, Without any meaning to the wise. It's like the gentle rain falling on the parched earth, Soaking the earth to rejuvenate, Creating and nurturing life, Without any meaning to the wise. It's like the breeze on the open field, Caressing the wildflowers and making them dance to their tunes, Cooling the perspiring brow of the men toiling in the field, Without any meaning to the wise. It's like a bright red moon luminescent, Alone in the darkness of the night, Ignored by all, but the lover pining for his beloved, Tossing and turning as he waits for the sleepless night to end, With no meaning to the wise. It's like the warm Sun on a winter noon, Warming the back of the weathered old man, Idling on his porch, alone, Awaiting the return of the prodigal son, Long gone to seek his fortune. My poems are for lover, Wide-eyed, innocent, With a passion for a tomorrow brighter, With dream in the eyes, hope in the heart. Let the wise debate the right and the wrong, The possible and the probable, While the lovers peddle hope in a barrow, To create a better tomorrow.