the bushes of heaven

The truest burning question is
what do you want and it is almost
always dodged or a substitute
is kept handy to keep
from falsehood so the true
might be true but is not the truest.

Well let’s get gritty true; let’s crank
heat. What I want is heaven
and heaven is less mansion
and more seacoast lighthouse
or an academic setting and the hairs
remain forever flecked with salt and there is

at least one if not a many-feathered
bevy of bods in blossom and bud
filling daily and nightly every
room with the scent of sin,
sent there to learn, to sit attentive,
listening, but creamy legs cross

and uncross, flashing fresh facts of life,
leaving seats warmer and more muggy
than when sitting; barriers, need barriers,
threats for a breach; head imprisoned
in clouds where madness is constantly
afloat; read assignments that do cross

lines and make specs fog and the hand
for grading tremble; tightrope finally frays
and fast is descent into a butler role
on a busy-busy chamber to chamber
route, speechlessly seeking to
placate insatiable demands


About Timmy the Scribbler

Love to write all kinds of stuff I love writing so many different kinds of stuff it is a constant struggle to narrow the focus to a manageable handful and let the others go. But a few years ago I dipped my fingers into a poetry pie and of all my uncertainties, one thing that is no uncertainty is that it is one passion that must remain, so maybe that's the one. I do dearly delight in chopping up fictional works into stanzas and syllables.
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