& Early to Rise

What to do?
What to do?
between the blinds
Sun seeps through
The next day finds us
Without a clue
But harried as we are
So terribly busy
To prove
Our lives are more
Than a mere collection of breath
Passing from this hour
Into the next
Everybodies poetry
&
Everybodies photograph
Is part of the app
Producing a song
Swelling as the credits roll
They roll on & on
An infinite train rushing through
Past slack jawed riders
Filling their cases brief
With cheques
And billable hours
Oh, someone's going to pay
You know they've got to pay

Morning Brings the Songs

Thank you
for the songs
you sing me
early in the morning.

For the images
you impart
through sonic means.

Sounds of nails creak
sliding into the flesh
of wood.
Birds outside
the global warming
of my air conditioned
photographic lair.

My God!
There are even beautifully photographed
birds on the calendar, 
across from the desk lamp,
on the wall.

Who should ever worry
over the poetry of spring?
Only salesmen worry.
Whether real or imagined.

Spring? NEVER!
Birds? NEVER!
Music? NEVER!

For these,
it's just enough
to be.