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Poetry Magnum Opus

A most peculiar man


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he sits upright

on the wooden bench

an oracle

of glass-eyed stillness

in the sun

ebullient children

shout and tease

their innocence away

they want to be

like god

if they can't create

they'll destroy


and over


small birds chortle

from the bush

and pigeons pick

at last night's puke

a playful dog

nudges him over--


onto his side

and a mother

dials 911

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I was soothed into the trap of facing reality, having identified completely with the oracle's predictable end. Not a bad way to go. Thanks for the reminder. ;)

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Sun on the face and in contemplation: they can call me peculiar and I won't mind one bit. :biggrin:

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