JUST A LITTLE POETRY...
THE BIRD IS THE WORD
My words are like words,
Floating from my mouth to the wind.
Like a new chick falling from its treetop nest.
More often than I'd like they are seagulls.
Trash riddled annoying things such as like and whatnot.
Ah, but sometimes they are eagles.
Powerful squawking sounds of war and truth and freedom.
Rarely, they are doves.
Pure, lovely, sentimental things.
Mostly the are sparrows.
Commonplace and dull. Hoping around from subject to subject. However, still quite important. Or at least I'd like to think so.- HC
FLOWERS FOR MOMMY'S HAIR
My little boy picks me flowers,
Like his daddy taught him to.
He brings them to me like a precious stone,
So proud of what he can do.
(Mind you, he is only two.)
He picks all sorts, whatever he finds,
And says "mommy for your hair."
So I tuck one behind my ear,
Or place ten of them everywhere.
(I don't care if anyone stares.)
A woman once asked him if his mom was pretty.
He said, "Yes. When I bring her flowers."
My heart swelled as I tried to explain,
This meaning that was only ours.
(And if I'm only pretty with flowers in my hair, well then bring on the April showers.)-HC
Lay me here in sepia mornings,
Tinted like the autumn leaves.
You played it like you wouldn't be here,
But you accidentally fell asleep.
Maybe it was right to know this,
Maybe it was wrong to care.
Fate may place the odds between us.
Yet I awake to find you there.
So if this morning is all I have,
To watch dawn's rays play on an angel asleep.
Then I'll do what day would heartlessly bring.
Fulfill all these responsibilities.
Faintly keep a memory
A silence I won't break with speech.
If you admit it wasn't an accident at all
And never was by any means.
Just a product of a morning's dreams.-HC