Raymond Farrell Poems

The Chinese work
Work, work, work
Blank faced
They ask no questions
...

There are no colors in reality
Just different wavelengths of light
An intricate matter
Of true complexity
...

When the end came
The air was crisp and cold
All up the mountain side
The snow glittered in the sun
...

Ism begins with I
Which is where its problems lie

It seldom matters what the prefix happens to be
...

It is the wild bird
Sitting listless in a cage
Choosing not to be heard
That puts all heaven in a rage.
...

Sometimes I think
if I could just
loosen up all the words
in the newspaper
...

Harsh
The biting wind
Sweeps the bare tundra
The sun reflecting off the snow
...

There is a plethora
Of information
Abounding
About dreams and pain
...

It overwhelms me
What little I've known of it
The vastness, the silent emptiness
No, not true emptiness
...