Drifts

Whispers of winter

Drift over pearl dunes and dry cheeks.

Under sun dogs and over black bears.

 

Sleeping giants.

 

Rushing into the windows of a smoking traveler.

 

Pitch black.

 

Screams and whistles and moans.

Subzero scowls and hot coffee night owls.

 

Protest- then drift away

To the cheeks of farmers, cursing the winds of this January day.

 

 

 

The Time

My, oh, my
look at the time.
How did the once small and curious
become so tired and furious?
Crushed by the weight of the world but forced to grow up,
told to be an individual, to make a wolf of a pup.
Told to follow their own path, told to never stray from the herd,
Told to follow unwritten rules- no matter how asinine, no matter how absurd.

Question nothing and work hard,
that is guaranteed to get you far.
Climb the ladder, don’t chew the fat.
Don’t bitch, don’t complain, don’t spit or spat.
Don’t raise a scene, don’t choose for yourself- no one would like that.
Keep your head down, be a good boy.
Follow the rules, do not dwell on the beliefs you employ.
Thoughts leads to challenge, challenge leads to change.
A spark and a question, and the neighbours will talk of you as strange.

Murmurs and whispers,
whispers and hushes,
Hushes and hums.

My, oh, my
look at the time.
The tired and the furious,
is now grey and delirious.
A hard worker, a busy bee.
Two admirable qualities
misplaced.
Pushing, pulling, bending and turning
is how he spent his days.
Head down, never nothin’ he needed to ask, never needed a say.
Knew the path he had to follow, knew not to ruffle feathers.
He fell in line for acceptance, to make the days bearable to weather.
His prize for all of that, in the end
was the admiration of the dead.