Reflections Poem by David DeSantis
Reflections
Oh these dreams,
Infantile infanticide
damned if I could
wash these stains
away from a pant leg
whose drip dropped dice
love to play crash
with elastic masters.
Wanton rage
I roll with destruction
and make no sense
in these sunny pastures.
But therapeutic
word games
do what they should
while
bronzed weight towers
are
spun from my head.
She used to read me
tales of the Hobbit
And he lived in our furnace
waiting to see me
and my mother would smile
while wanting
more for me
simple child
don't do what you do...
Funny, I'm liking these word-games! Most amusing... HG: -) xx
Sometimes, a piece on face value feels so, sort of, randomly thrown together that one things one can't relate.... until one realises that that randomness is perhaps precisely the reason one can. Pass the G & T. t x
Sounds like a drunk rush of memories, not altogether unpleasant. Great job as always
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/30/2024 9:57:12 AM # 1.0.0.1119
read this poem from top to bottom then from bottom to top and got it! simple child, do what you do - go play with words and not worry too much about all that infanticde stuff that you don't understand. Great, Dave.