Silent maraca inside my brain
Shaking the seeds of life giving grain
Jostling around the nuts of creation
Juiced up tears of belated elation.
Inward cactus of rib tickling fun
Drives like a knife in the desert sun
The sound of rain on its spiney legs
Crunches a feast of bacon and eggs.
You could eat that smile his yoke is easy,
But lay off the grain, you’ll make him queasy.
A hand reaching out to bang that drum,
Four little fingers, one little thumb.
Why are those fingers stretched into thin air?
Because he wants to tug at your hair.
Funky chunky feet and darling face
Take over my mind and fill the space.
Of piglets and markets,
Of pretty bells and rings,
And blackbirds and crows.
The sound in your ear is
A gurgling laugh.
A wordless sentence of
Of twinkles and diamonds,
Like sparks in the sky.
Of grand dukes and old kings,
Who swallowed a fly.
The voice in your head will
Love beyond reason.
A tiny little hand
Grips the fate of a nation.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Madness Retreats by Lydia Martin )
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