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Nonsense Poem of a Rambler
Waves unbearing
tossing turning
all the while, my
head still spins, in rain
the puddles cease to stop
their growing, for
only knowing people reign
in sovereignty divine, today
delay the past and future gone
time is now the start of
dawn when cocks crow the morn
and trees reach high for
sunlit skies not muggy blanket
mornings that remind the dreamer:
I am still asleep and you
are merely waking sooner than
the others still in the
wold below; you do not know . . .
-- we breathe so slowly, eyes about
fanatically, searching the sometimes
unknown landscape.
And you, dear you, so blandly
mild in appetite, desire, sit alone
by a soon wasted fire
-- alone again, tired?
Slowly dissapating to a certain
nowhere along with the fire of
your mettles uncertainty.
So sit there asleep, as we are
awake in ours, in your
own world. Because sometimes waves,
no matter the size, can crash with force
ten times your thoughts. And sometimes
small things get you very
far. Sleep well, my pretty. . .
__
And the sun comes up, the moon abides
by Nature's law and will of mine
I sink onto. . .
Down under the front
over the top, spinning down, down
and stop, the never ceasing
childish game will maybe,
now come to an end
and crying stops, love is found
babies crawl on fours awhile
the bagpipes play and beansides
cry aloud in dismal wretched joy
for girls and boys, the little
people speak to all and all shall
hear the rhyme of he that balls
the time in lucid wakefulness and settles
in trees impressed by the flouting of the faun.
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