Snap-Script Snake

Snake long,
Snake gone;
Where to?
Wish I knew!

poem by Mill Field
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Thought Love is .....

Love is the best teacher;
Love is the best student.

poem by Mill Field
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Snap-Script Fifth Symphony (RVW)

Fifth Symphony -

Clouds, sunshine,
Rainbows,
Peace.

poem by Mill Field
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Snap-Script - Harvest

Golden harvest,
Golden sun,
Silver sickle,
Harvest won.

poem by Mill Field
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Thought Head-Spin

Yesterday's tomorrow is Today;
Today is tomorrow's Yesterday;
Today, so be it,
For sanity's sake,
Is also Today.

poem by Mill Field
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Thought Silence

Silence begets thought;
Thought begets action;
Action begets change;
Change begets decay;
Decay begets silence;
Silence begets.......

poem by Mill Field
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Gen Despair

Despair -
When hope is snuffed out like a guttering candle.

Despair -
When hope is sadistically excised with surgical precision.

Despair -
When hope is torn from a half-living body in huge gobbets
By rapacious beaks and ravening teeth.

Despair -
When hope is annihilated.

poem by Mill Field
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Gen Recurring Cycles

Recurring cycles of rural India repeat themselves
In the insistent rhythms of tribal dance
And the undulating cadences of tribal song;
In the fractured society of the West
Man's self-obsession is typified
By the alone dancing of the Twist, the Frog
And later versions of the same.

poem by Mill Field
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Poetry TIme is Precious

Time is precious, time is sweet,
Time flies by on Hermes feet.

The ode is long, an epic too,
Ballads and sonnets cause much to do;
What should a muse therefore try
To please the ear and catch the eye?
A Rubia, perhaps, the thing for you
Or even better, try Haiku.

Time is precious, time does fly,
Time stops not until we die.

poem by Mill Field
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Hum The Haiku is a Funny Bird

The Haiku is a funny bird
Which roosts not in a tree,
It looks around with wondrous eye
And whispers much to me.

He looks him up, he looks him down,
He looks around the fields and town,
And when his wondrous eyes do caper
It's time to grab a pen and paper.

For then the Haiku shows his skill
And sets to verse most anything;
I fold my hands and grateful bow
Then feed him fish or sometimes chow.

poem by Mill Field
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