Wild Woods

Oh with wide eyes
Wild eyes and shaky hands
Peering over cliffs
Moss muffled footsteps
I write my name in pine needles
And look for insight in DNA sequences
Oh, I look for falling branches
Fanatics and apathetics
Stepping over lukewarm pools
Snares and booby traps
Till the wind and waves make sense
And I forget the danger
Of ancient woods and solitary places

Poem Children of The Storm

Oh, we the insane!

Those with some sense,

take their clothes off the fence.

They run in the house,

to get out of the rain

Oh but not us.

We throw open the windows.

Run out of doors.

We go flying down highways,

and running through moors.

God bless those who love us.

Oh, for they need it more,

than those who love others,

who also stay out of storms.

Minitroubadoura 2019