Choice of Ripe Fruit

Oh if only Ah the choice were obvious
not just any port in any tempest
give me my own mystery not a borrowed one

Wrote my daughters poems in every line
mistakes and broken rules while my sons
scribbled outlines of bold intentions

When my cup is overfull high
with noise and froth of tried youth
no hard question may be asked

A man alone is a man gone
down an alley of his own
tripping his private phony

In the early days of god and man I
quenched my curiosity with hot sand
and foamy wave drinking it all in

Tragic it would be to spend my days
the time I nurtured into ripe fruit
tasting spoons and forks because they’re there

On the table set with house-kept care
cold decisions based on warmly felt
loyalties to what my body loves

Being tangled up with other forms of
life their shadows echoing need on need
answerable and questionable fine lines

The finest one of which fuses
wrong right rule and abuse the
partially full embrace of profound


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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