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.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Madness Retreats by Lydia Martin )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou