“SQUINTING.” a poem about no longer being able and/or willing to open our eyes to the mysterious and beautiful. a.k.a.: “It Is NEVER Too Late, Unless You Think It Is.” December 23, 2019: MONDAY
Children of The Wind; CHILDREN OF THE SUN;
These are children, who will run and run.
These are children, our children, who will go OUT to have fun;
These are children, potentially us, who will NOT be (un)done,
With any day UNTIL THEY HAVE DANCED A JIG.
Out THERE under The Sun and Sky; they are tanned and big,
And ferocious and grateful, so, they are generous and fair,
As they RUN in the SUN sniffing The Air,
Like ANIMALS,
And we are ALL animals today,
And, when we lose OUR WILD, it is sad;
People like to say:
“CHILDREN ARE SO VITAL, so let us take them IN,
To the dark halls of schools and temples, where we have been,
FOR TOO LONG. (pause) Away,
From Sun and sensible, happy play,
With chairs so easy and “boxes” drab and gray.
LET US MAKE THEM STARE and SIT and PRAY,
And we’ll teach them to look through thick panes (pains) and squint at The Bright,
Sunlit day, and, in time, they will no longer put up a fight,
To get outside because TIME’S NOT MONEY OUT THERE,
Yet time, unlike money will NEVER tear,
But ALL our souls NOW seem torn without clean air.
CHILDREN OF THE SUN. They are not seen clearly, but, I think,
No clothes they wear.
fin ♥