Someone asked me for an introduction. I just gawked. Really, for all it's worth, my poems speak of me the way I am. Or am not. Who knows. My poems know me best. Ask them.
No time
to stop and stare,
in a
forest sans all care,
Herding,
ambling along
through
creepers, vine and root,
and sound
of marching boot,
no music
and no song.
It’s
crowded when I read,
which
happens off and on;
and thus
these books to me
are often
a clarion
that
blows away the cobwebs
of ego
and illusion
and
brings to light a tableau
born of
kindred seclusion.
Baring such
truths well-nested
(always
were there to see)
My books
and I stop here
under this
whispering tree
where me,
my pen, my longings
at play,
yet adequately rested.
*****
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