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JUST A LITTLE POETRY...

 
Birds on Power Line

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.

Bride with Flowers in Hair

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.)