Voice Birth and Death

Stories do not come but
are herded and roped
fickle and homelessly
hoping for a forever.

Children on the knee
well rhymes upward
nonsense as free
as bubbling spring.

Travel makes poems
like sadness makes song
nothing makes wishing
belonging is silent.

What I should say
to break through noise
arrives after a pause
between shoulder and ear.

Shut up for the night
for a change allow
the litter of language
to blow through your canyons.


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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