Short subjects.

Poets tend to talk too much,
would-be poets more.
Seems they've just forgotten
what their ears are for. 


There are times when giving all
one needs more yet to give,
and if the search prove fruitless,
it seems absurd to live. 

Yet oftentimes absurdity
may be the price we pay,
for finding joy in springtime
and watching children play.


My Spirit used to answer me
when I was filled with questions.
Now it only watches me
and listens to suggestions.


Driving through insanity
was never more than fleeting
Until I paused to say hello;
responding to its greeting.