Near The Cottage At Blueberry Inn Poem by Chaz Walker

Black swans peddle in a lake of stars
To wake the foghorn dreamer.

He's smashing lightning rocks
And hard boiled poetry

For truth, or something near.
What can we do to help?

Perhaps listen to whistling ghosts
And drink parched messages

In a bottle, to discover
Reality is the perception of many

Strung through antiquity's mirror.
I cannot count the armed cicadas

Planting symphonies in the blue grass,
Nor can the world speed up existence

For health, or something dear.
But I do know the foghorn dreamer

Is writing God a prayer,
Simple as infinity times infinity

With humanity to spare.