Raymond Farrell Poems

It is of late
Some poetry has ceased to be great
Its incomprehensibility although admired by a few
Leaves most people concluding they have better things to do
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Freedom of speech
Is a means to an end
If all you get to do
Is talk all the livelong day
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Crave not the soft or loud applause
That passes in a fleeting moment of time
It means nothing to one engaged in a righteous cause
Bent on making a true difference.
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It is a comfort to me
To come alone to this place
To meditate and quiet be
Here in this clearing
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The Divine is not compelled
TO speak with the voice of thunder
Or be heard in the rushing wind
When a still small voice will suffice
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When I was a kid
The big American companies
Wrapped themselves
In the Stars and Stripes
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She will never grow old
And sit by this fire
Nor nod off in repose
Or look back in fond desire
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If you want to know
Who is a proper fool
It is he or she
Who sits on their stool
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Soft as the dew that covers the field
Fragrant as the scent the lilacs yield
Within, my heart is oh so still
I am in love and will drink my fill
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