Dreams on the Windowsill
Sleep stalks a young child
and the moon romances the night
upon whose breast she rests.
Dreams fly in and out
of open windows, some sit
on their favourite windowsills
and watch peaceful faces,
limp limbs with curled fingers.
I sit on the edge of your bed
with my hand on your heart
and together
with the dreams of the universe
I watch over your sleep.
by Kynan Cooke
A telephone message:
by Kynan Cooke
Prelude to the Butterfly Chronicle
This is a story…
A story of understanding
of things the way
they are,
have been,
and why.
an understanding i acquired
over the lifespan
of a blue butterfly -
a very short time
indeed.
But the butterfly said
it is still
a lifetime of knowledge,
and knowledge comes
faster in her
life of days
than it does
in my life
of stacking years.
GREED
Before the first dawn
I had no yearning
for the sun;
no disdain
for the dark.
- - - - - - - -
Before the first dawn
I had no yearning for sunrise
No disdain for darkness.
- - - - - - - -
Before the first dawn
I had no eyes
for sunrise;
no disdain
for night.
This Isn’t a Poem
Hey Tumblr Gang,
Three scribblers from Jamaica just sailed in from another blog space to remain unnamed.
Please see our imported works in previous posts below.
Show us some love and share your wit
We’ll wave back with rambling rhymes and scribbles of grit.
Mustard Seed
Mustard seed sometimes blow upon the winds,
They blow across feilds… their own, across strange new fields,
and through cities. There many of the wandering seed die,
smashed on windshields, crushed beneath heavy trucks or harmless leather shoes.
Some seed settle on windowsills and sow for a steady future.
They can no longer bear the dangers of nomadic life.
The rest they ride on the winds, onward looking,
feeling, singing, seeing, dying…
They ride.
