Poems

Beyond the greenery of dream-like poems

I can hear the thuds of waterfalls;

Some soft, some not quite so,

But all the same - 

Breaking the back of hardened stones.

Alas! The passengers call it paradise -

And capture the torture with gleeful eyes.

The thuds, however, are the groans of both -

The solid and the fluid - annihilating each other

In an obscene dance of cosmic posture.

Who smiles, I wonder, beyond the trees

That span my immediate horizon!

I never wrote the poem that I'm walking on,

My feet, yet are tied to the mud

My skin, wet from yesterday's rain

Sticks, but to what - I have no answer.

Here's a mud-house, engulfing itself

Poems usually end by devouring themselves.