Fluid Inspiration

A misty whim distills on dust of destiny,
Condensing into drizzling downpours of desire.
Amassed on vital earth, it gathers into dreams—
A stream of vision mirroring tomorrow's light.
Its softly flowing course is simply swept aside
By foolish envying, relentless lethargy,
A coward's satisfaction or distracted will.
However, left unhindered, nature's native course
Provides a path of pleasantly torrential turnsCascading ever onward into swelling peace.

The Peach Tree

In summers past, I wandered free.
One day I chanced to see a tree
Who spoke and started asking me
Some things I couldn’t answer.
He asked me why the earth is round
And where the rarest diamond’s found
And what’s the spider monkey’s sound
And what’s the cure for cancer?

I thought and then began to say
“Who cares about this anyway?
I don’t have time to stay all day
I really should be going.”
The tree looked down and then replied
“For many years now I have tried
To find someone who has inside
Some things that are worth knowing.”

I thought again and said to him
“You know, I’m really not that dim!
You’re asking questions on a whim.
I want to know your reason.”
He quietly began to sigh
Then said “This is the reason why
It really makes me want to cry
Whenever I’m in season.”

I asked him what he meant and then
He started talking yet again
“The only time I’m used is when
You people want my peaches.
I’m really good for more, you know.
I always want the chance to show
My aptitude to think and grow
And give inspiring speeches.”

He said that word and then I knew
The very thing I had to do
And so I got a saw and glue
And fashioned my creation.
I cut the tree down, then I took
The wood and with it made a book,
An then a podium, and look!
An utter innovation!

The book sits on his stand, you see
And rests there very pleasantly
Inside a university
With people always near him.
The book gives lectures twice a day
And speaks so well you have to pay.
At last the old tree got his way
And people always hear him.

The Sweet Remorse of Pity

The herald of the dying crow
Announces all deserving woe
But long, long afterward the crowd remains
To hear the herald speak the woes again.

Until at last the glutted crowd
Complains the dirge too sad and loud.
They dig the wretched remnants from the ground
And set their frame on strings to dance around.

The crowd thinks nothing of the show
But cries the louder should it go.
They place the fetid thing in sheltered frame
And proudly pass to marvel whence it came.

They hide their conscious shame of grief
In epitaphs on gilded leaf.
Their empathies all twitch in final bow,
The last effect to crease a wrinkled brow.