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The Quarrel And The Harmony....

what has limited us is the
that rule that there must be
a count, a rhyme, a
structure and with all these
man-made rules

the dove had flown away
without us
the rose wilted without us
savoring the momentary
eternity of its red petals
its heart pleasing scent

they, all self-proclaimed poets
gather in a room and quarrel
over what best form is there

outside the room filled with
smoke and brew
the soft rain falls on the leaves
of the willow trees
the soft winds caress the buds
of magnolias

under the nipa hut a dog takes
shelter beside his master waiting
for the soft rain to stop as the
soft winds pass by them
giving them that feeling of bliss
touching their warm skins.

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4/15/2021 6:30:54 PM #