Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas
Cos' turkeys just wanna hav fun
Turkeys are cool, turkeys are wicked
An every turkey has a Mum.
Be nice to yu turkeys dis christmas,
Don't eat it, keep it alive,
It could be yu mate, an not on your plate
Say, Yo! Turkey I'm on your side.
I got lots of friends who are turkeys
An all of dem fear christmas time,
To fling my arms wide
In some place of the sun,
To whirl and to dance
Till the white day is done.
Then rest at cool evening
Beneath a tall tree
While night comes on gently,
Dark like me-
That is my dream!
Cruising these residential Sunday
streets in dry August sunlight:
what offends us is
the houses in pedantic rows, the planted
sanitary trees, assert
levelness of surface like a rebuke
to the dent in our car door.
No shouting here, or
shatter of glass; nothing more abrupt
The leaves are blowing away
Up, up, and away they go.
Swish, swoosh, they go.
Like a dancing ballerina
Up, up and away they go
Way up , in the sky.
The trees standing there,
Their branches all bare.
The wind whistling throughout empty branches,
Who, if I cried out, would hear me among the angels'
hierarchies? and even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I would perish
in the embrace of his stronger existence.
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror
which we are barely able to endure and are awed
because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Each single angel is terrifying.
And so I force myself, swallow and hold back
the surging call of my dark sobbing.
Barefoot in luxuriant grass, luscious, pearl moonlight falling down,
In the golden season of sensual thrills, in the hours without sound,
Underneath the tempting tangerine tree, eating of its fragrant fruit,
With the stars dancing to tomorrow, by enigmatic, invisible routes.
Barefoot in peaceful dreamland, caressed softly by romantic moon,
When the ebony world lies in waiting, for the yellow canary's tune,
Barefoot in tangy tangerines, in the warm, soft, wandering breezes,
In the darkest hours of sleepless night, when it seems time ceases.
I was a happy fruit farmer, growing delicious, healthy fruits for consumption.
Since we'd bought the farm ten years prior, all the family lent to its function.
It was a large, productive farm, and we ran it with our extended, fine family,
As pretty bluebirds of vivid sunset, are homeward bound to their family tree.
We all had our cozy, separate houses, but came together every working day,
As hilltop blooms gather each sunrise, sensing the luster coming their way!
Our farm produced several fruit varieties, but not my favorite, strawberries,
delight of jade spring
pink perfumed mass profusion
sunbathing bronzed blooms
cardinal sings loud
from his perch next to blue sky
drawing the world's attention
a mulberry tree
under dark blue/purple skies
birdsong on the wind
red orb descending
midst the hello and goodbye
the wandering hours
evening breeze caress
sun lurks in shadows of night
singing under cobalt skies ~
unseen midst green leaves