Plovers for Nightingales.
I
I hear them, behind the soft glow windows scene
Of girthing brick suburbs, encircling the green

You know, the lonely tappers singing
Along the lines of the lovers, listening

They hear its imploring screeching in the dark
As a pouring forth, a protective heart

The defining nocturne sound, in the southern night
The night song of the plover’s birthright

By day, deemed guilty by proximity,
They spear my sight, swooping desperately

Kronos, who steadfastly, slowly crept
in my childhood Mays
now sprints past, sometimes in spasms
seemingly, sometimes, jumping whole days

I wander in a beautiful garden
in those missing hours
memories are misty in my mind
but I still can smell the flowers

a face fades in and out of my vision
a stranger, yet I should know him
I stare at pleading, soul ravaged caverns
as sparkling diamonds form at their rim

A dark and dreary day it could have been,
A funeral procession,
Heads hung in mourning numbers,
A young woman in infinite slumber,
Buried in rich red velvet and dark mahogany;
Her friends and family in agony.
They ask, "Why did she want to leave?
To go, and make us grieve?"
The thick gray headstone might have read,
Our daughter, Forever, we lay her to bed.
Then they'd walk away, weeping
And she'd just be sleeping...

“… for man’s society is at an end.”
Announcers can be rather dull at need,
especially when spewing such a feed.
“There’s naught much else to say than that, my friend”.

The last ‘lectronic voice went round the bend.
He too had friend and family to feed.
The all that now is left, a solemn creed,
is trust that God an Angel born will send.

In deepest jungles of the R. O. C.,
a dozen men and women labor long
to find that which Man’s certain can’t be found.