PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I hear this dreadful dripping sound in almost

every other thing

and in my hurried hand there's this thin pipe like

object that I can only wish I could far from me fling

and in my wary and worried ears

I hear this sudden muted ring

like I'm the only one close enough to hear it

so to me it tries to cling

but before any sense gets close enough to the surface

the wind falls out of my sails to leave only the sound

of nothing

what if every pong you you should pick up held no

eventual ping

and after the hard edges of winter

there was no soft approach by spring

wouldn't you too feel like a lost song

that no one ever even once wished to sing

every young bird lives with the dying hope

that it can one day flap upon the wind its

span full wings

and like my brother the passing bee

I die a small and slow, insignificant death

when my pollen is passed and my stinger fails

when it stings ...............

( written March 3, 1992 am)