The bug flies to rest upon your finger
And crawls up it as if you were not there.
You watch its investigative linger,
Making sure to respect your guest with care.
This is when you bring your finger to me
And ever so carefully and gently
You guide your friend over to my left knee
Where in its new environment it’s free.
The bug wanders around its new terrain.
It peeks its head into every nook,
When, for reasons that I cannot explain
Up into the dusk of day, off it took.
That has become my favorite moment
For it was so simple before it went.
Why should I lament the slow retreating
Of one who many call my enemy?
My victory will bask in the heating
Of the summary of days so sunny?
But when my foe is no longer around,
Will I find satisfaction in the peace
I have obtained on the battleground?
Will my vain lust for war begin to cease?
Or will I regret the new found absence
Who in my heart I believed I must hate?
For when I find that he has gone from hence
That actually, he was my perfect mate.
We must first learn to live in harmony
With the one we think is our enemy.
Let me tell you my story through pictures
Because no words are needed to be said
About the traits of my adventures.
Let my bold actions tell the tale instead.
It starts by being trapped in a dark room
Working by the light of a computer.
Having no escape indicates my doom,
Making the in-pile harder to endure.
But my heart begins to make a demand
To breathe deeply the clean air of freedom,
So from behind my desk I take a stand
To return to the place where I came from.
There is a rock in my secret garden
Where I can sit and take the nature in.
Can expectations live up to the hype
Or will you feel hollow disappointment?
Will you nitpick what you have seen, and gripe
‘Bout wanting more from your entertainment?
What do you expect from an industry
Who wishes nothing more than your pleasure?
Why do you think those who make a movie
Are subject to a life of indenture?
When has it been your creativity
That has given us reason to applaud?
Do you understand how this scrutiny
Is regarded as words told from a fraud?
If you believe you can do better
Then take your turn being the court jester.
The night is when we take over the roads
With all of our trinkets and wares to sell.
We put up our tents and unpack our loads
Of colorful textiles with their bright spells.
Would you please unhinge your fat money clip
To give away your valuable bills?
In exchange in your backpack you can slip
The stuff you have earned with your shopping thrills.
We can both move on with each satisfied
About what we have done in this market.
Thoughts of Communism is all that died
As the world fights for what it wants to get.
We will shuffle off in the rising dawn
Wondering where the night market has gone.
Death of a Teacher
He was buried under a mound of dirt
Commemorated by simple granite.
Attired in his most expensive shirt,
They stuffed him in a box of laminate.
A preacher stood at the edge of the grave
To sing out comforting words to no one.
Even the day’s weather would not behave
As the moist grass baked in the morning sun.
Beyond the gates of the cemetery
His students bustled on with their careers.
They did not read his obituary,
Having let go of all their high school fears.
The weight of his teaching prosperity
Comes from knowing he has no legacy.