What man lives
Who can write of things
That only God can create?

The wonders of mountains
Or the beauty of the morning,
The smell of the sea,
At evening tide.

The crashing of thunder
Or the breaking of dawn,
The setting of the Sun,
In cloudy skies.

Who is to wonder
At man, small in stature,
Small in accomplishments.

Go, I as a sinner
A man without feelings,
Towards all the others,
That have gone,
Long before, I.

My mind is in a shallow grave.
No depth of soul,
No heart, the brave.
I search for words. They do not come.
Perhaps I should drink some rum.
Whimsical verse, M. Oliver says to me,
Will not happen. Lost in my reverie.

Rainfall refreshes the air.
Water puddling in the street,
Except under the trees,
There lie the flowers,
In pots so dry,
Still growing with
All the colors, galore
More Impatiens are
What we need
To brighten this
Gloomy day.

I lay in bed at darkest night,
I cannot sleep, so I will write.
Writing words that come to mind
like oil to water, I will find.
The words flow to paper and
I write them quickly, with my pen.
Words that mean so much to me,
Hoping that the readers will see,
The thoughts, that grew in the darkness
of my head now make sense or are a mess.
It is hard to write now, I approach the end
Hoping you will like this, just pretend.