Whose Garden?

Will Mr. Shakespeare I wonder

what you would think of our garden of verse

Language has morphed far from

the lilting phraseology of your time

The poets remember from whence we came

but thou and thee ere gone

are now us and our present garden

is an untamed rugged landscape

constantly changing and eroding

from the hydraulics of thought

We connect the dots of our scars

like an erratic tattoo artist

jabbing his pen of life

leaving immutable evidence

of experience seasoning our world

Wrinkles not gracious enough to follow the flow

of blue rivers create furrowed crevices

dry creek beds snaking

their way across the topography

Corrugated folds of un-ironed thoughts

replace smooth surfaces

Will you loved with the soft tones

of smooth dew kissed rose petals

We love with petals and thorns and gritty soil

The thorns prick our souls

We with the blood scribe flowering words

(First published by the Oyez Review February 2016)