Loom

When I read a stranger’s poetry,
I often do prepare
for too much sentimentality
and more clichés than I care bare.

Rhyming words are thrown abound;
archaic words are too much seen.
The poets merely like the sound,
with little care for what they mean.

But sometimes, I’m forced to stand,
and I pace around the room,
for the poet has put heart to hand,
and deep within me their words loom.

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Mine to Ponder

Thousands of movies and books
have shown me things that I’ve not seen,

but I don’t know how it all looks
away from the pages and the screen.

I look out upon the falling snow
as it paints and fluffs the village yonder

and I see it as some art to know,
with the rest still mine to ponder.

Peace

A budding peace
that I don’t know
surrounds my mind.

Thinking will cease
if I move slow
and act resigned.

If I move soon,
and think a lot,
I can evade

and be immune
to the onslaught
of peace’s aid.

And if I stay
who will I be?
And what is being?

I’ll find out today,
quite possibly;
I won’t be feeling.