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If Dreams

If dreams were all we ever knew,

Subconscious cities, streets and sky;

We’d never have to wonder why

There’s nowhere left for me and you

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On Reading Plato's "Crito"

Dear Crito, now, suggests that I should go.
I cannot do this, for it would be wrong;
And though I know the ship arrives ere long, 47 more words

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The Constant Battle

Her back hurts, so she cannot rest,
And work is suffering these days;
She’s daily there, within a haze
Travailing, tired and depressed

But when she can, she breaks away; 18 more words

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He wanted to find out the truth,
Some part that he could understand,
And so he traveled through the land
A roving, wisdom-seeking sleuth

But found most ‘truth’ mere children’s toys, 65 more words

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[*Note : “Epione” should more-or-less rhyme with “Hermione” – Owen]

= = = = =

The sun-bright day, it takes its toll.
A tired languor it portends, 31 more words

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The working day is under wraps,

I’m wending my way home at last;

When this last run of turns is past

I will be home, where I’ll collapse

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Where It Needs To Be

My mind’s still where it needs to be

On numbers; dollars, cents and yen;

It is back to the task again,

And not on writing poetry

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