HERE BE MONSTERS: I recycled an old picture of mine, but the poem is new...

DO TREES DREAM?

Do trees dream
as they sleep away the winter
are their nocturnal thoughts kept
in the tiniest piece of splinter

When their branches sway
are they acting out a memory
when the wind interrupts their sleep
are they really trying to get free

Free to run and laugh
as we are want to do
what we take for granted
our whole life through

I watch the trees and wonder
why I care at all
why I think these things
at the end of every fall

Is it because I see in them
a little piece of me
an understanding of what it is
a yearning to be set free

To try for something different
something I haven’t had yet
friendship love and laughter
a promise not quite yet met

So I watch the trees sleeping
and swaying with the wind
dreaming of running and laughter
and good times that never end

I smile and I know their longings
I know what makes them sway
I smile because I understand
I dream exactly the same way

DAS

Things I believe in...

Family. Love. Fossils. Art. Stories. Garlic. Lemonade. Zydeco music. Dancing. Flying geckos. Autumn. Water Taxi. Cherry dipped cones. Comic Books. Empire Steak Sauce. Musicals. Forests. Porkpie Hats. Pitcairn Island. Scary Fez wearing Monkey. Celtic Music. Air Conditioning. The Separation of Church and State. New Wave music. Romantic movies. Photography. St. Louis. Wargames. Travel. BBQ. Wingtip Shoes. Flat top haircuts. New York City. Harry Ramsden's Traditional Tomato Ketchup. Calvin and Hobbes. Herpetology. Ireland. America. Bluegrass music. Laughing out loud. Rain storms. History. Mythology. Pacman frogs. Tolkien. The Watchmen. Snufkin. The Stand. Rockabilly music. Matching my clothes. Shrimp Cocktail. The Statue of Liberty. The sound of crickets. Claddaugh rings. Butterflies. Marlin Fishing Caps. Science Fiction. Adam Ant. The Circus. Sobriety. Friends. Vidalia Onions. Boston Terriers. Atheism. MIZZOU. Tiffany. Poetry. NYC Subway. Cool belt buckles. Chicago. Pretzels. Potatoes. Pecans. Peanuts. Diet Sun Drop. Salt. And Pappa's Favorite Shrimp Dip!

MY SEE-THRU HEART OF CLAY

A man of grey,
lives in the world today,
and he holds a secret.

He keeps it close,
safe near it's host,
his see-thru heart of clay.

Fired in the furnace,
polished and burnished,
with it's bright red coat of glaze.

If you hold it up to the light,
and peer thru it just right,
his heart seems almost ok.

Happy and carefree,
or so it seems to be,
till you notice the fray.

The missing pieces,
a fracture increases,
and it gives the repairs away.

He didn't hold on tight,
and it wasn't always right,
and sometimes it had it's way.

Leaping too soon,
his heart carried the tune,
and jumped to unhearing women.

He saw his love discarded,
unheard and disregarded,
much to his heart's dismay.

He winced at the sound,
of it breaking on the ground,
his see-thru heart of clay.

He knows what to do,
and reaches for the jar of glue,
to mend it once again.

He gripes it tight,
it sets thru the night,
and it almost seems ok.

He tries to use more care,
a perfect heart it seems is rare,
and his has seen some changes.

He's kept it on his sleeve,
not as safe as you'd believe,
and sometimes it got broken.

He's kept it locked away,
his see-thru heart of clay,
and it strained at the treatment.

Wishing to be free,
wanting the world to see,
the music that it reflected.

He holds it up high,
so the light catches the eye,
revealing all his inner feelings.

All the fears and the worries,
all the love and the stories,
everything that he has to give.

You see I am the man of grey,
that lives in the world today,
and I hold a secret.

I have something here,
a treasure that I hold dear,
wouldn't you like to see it?

I'll reveal it to you this one time,
so you can hear it's shining rhyme,
this is what I have to show you.

My secret heart.
My imperfect heart.
My see-thru heart of clay.

DAS

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

I recycled an old picture of mine, but the poem is new...

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