Page C9

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Wake Up

By Arlon Staywell
Richmond 2001 — Look, it's back, the "AABA iamb-pent" like the Oklahoma City poems.  Okay, so maybe there isn't a God.  (Just kidding, God, you know I am your ever faithful servant.)  Make that disciplined disciple.

            Again I Dream

    There are translated senses building dreams
    And with no sounds or colors, so it seems
    The streets are oddly all bereft of signs
    Yet walks one there before the dawn's sun gleams

    The nose, the ears, the eyes do not tell what it means
    Nor can they ever as they're just machines
    The story's told indeed, but not by these
    That tell in highs or lows, red, blues or greens

    My God alive and angels dance and play
    But through the world below they will not stray
    Until the time is right, all within lines
    And they are building dreams for mortal clay

© MMI by Arlon Ryan Staywell

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