Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
no place to turn
where silence
might be found
no light to burn
where ashes
might be ground
into the embers
of the bonfires
of the insanities
no place to scorn
where rowdiness
abounds
no sire so forlorn
where the doubt
so so stiffly surrounds us
