Audience

The pigeon
For, as far as I know
It is a pigeon

Anyhow the pigeon
If that is what it is
The pigeon claps its wings

Yes madam
I did say claps it’s wings
I did not mean flaps

If I had meant flaps
I would have said flaps
So just clap, now, why don’t you

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Go There

A bench
Dry dry wood
From an old old tree

Knots, and age rings
Or partial rings
Up to the sawn edges

Ants enter the crevices
Such an exploration
Yet for what purpose

Other than a desire
To know what it is
That is not yet known

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Flutter

I walk
The butterfly flies
I walk a little further
Another butterfly flies
I walk a little further still
Yet another butterfly flies

I am reminded of the story
Of the tree falling in the forest
If no one is there
Does it make a noise

I walk a good deal further
Believe me
Another butterfly flies

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Absent Or Abstention

Deep on a countryside outing
Superficial in shallow thought
Deep though in calorie counting
Naught needed to add to fraught

Deep into an English summer
Philosophy far from my mind
No way could I ever be a runner
I am of a quite different kind

Deep down, with escapist action
Theories are left to dwell
I am among a minority faction
And I feel so so incredibly well

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Not For Vehicular Traffic

I found a lane
A pond of open water
A gated road, securely closed
But with a footpath beside it

Indeed a well worn path
The grass having been cut back
With its remnants turned to dust
O what a magical summer

I am a little bit lost
Yet I can hear voices
So I step out, in that way
To find myself completely

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