From the mountaintop

From from Roscoe Village;
an Ohio Canal Town,
I transferred a dozen purple Iris;
they grew and fluttered about,
expecting attention,
there is no doubt!

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Here sweet incense flows in the air.
Wind and rain come across the sea.
I’ve cooked steamed rice for stew
to drive away our hunger
then we’ll have fruit

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I say to self:
where would I be today,
if God had provided me another way?
Yet I still ask: was this confusion, pain and strife
meant to last all my life?

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How is it that others
can write novels . . .
while I’m stuck here
writing all these Micropoems?

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My poor ole’ feet ache this life, from being bound in a past life;
O’ I suppose, the theory of reincarnation could fool even me!
No, I don’t want to debate!

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As a child it was funny
eating Mulberries
picked up off the street
without a thought of being neat.

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