Once, I was there

Clouds are poems Nature writes in the sky

They sing, for us to hear their songs

And what fear they bring us leaves us

When we sit still and what is stirring

In the ticket becomes quiet and like babies

We sleep away from what is afraid in us.

Then many days after laboring hours

When mute in a universe that roars around us

We may hear at last again the uneasy songs in the poems

And when we sing those poverty-stricken songs again

The clouds move as if their awkward task is done.

Sometimes, the whirlwinds sparkle like rollers and screeches

But the seamstress of the Universe leaves the scissors

To cut through shapes designed even though it wounds

When the designer draws the long thread to knot the corners

Like tomatoes nude on the ranks faces torments as it burns in oil

Its teeth only grits uncomfortable tense; but what can it do?

Soon, the designer will return like the evening swallow with smiles

To pour the sobbing tomatoes onto a plate and stretching a smile

Rejoices in the shadow of a cozy comfortable homey shade

Not remembering the discomfort of the destitute moments

When the unsuitable restless whirlwinds blew painfully all hopes

And disgust argues in the stomach and in the pocket was pennilessness.

Once, I was there, an unacceptable embarrassing needy, unsuitable

For the ashtray where I tried to stand up in the poem but rising

My dreams were like a bird without wings in a world

Where pain and disturbingly troublesome glances greeted every hope

Who wants that when we know 
The Titanic was sunk by only an iceberg?