What else to do than think about the trees?
Thinking is like a prayer for me.

Listening to their thoughts, listening to their feelings, pure thought,
I gather, I gather. They inspire.

The Indian crow above,
Another,
More distinguished singer,
Amidst a fresh breeze of Sun,
And,
Bare feet upon sacred Soil.

Singst thou for whom?
Singst thou for me?

A claxon Outward;

Crappy memory sewage redistilled by imagination and counterfeit dollar bills drenched in blood.

Seems like everything, people as if in sign language.

Railroads high through colored lenses.

The dark lenses don't fit.

Elizabeth Barret Browning with her eleven-points-poem.
It is like the discovery of America. She has opened the Frontier for me.

How can I elevate my poetry?

The waterscape, a strand and a frigate.
Blocks of ice gliding to the Ocean Maternal,
From the once forlorn Zuyder Zee inlet,
Into the merchandised North Sea Canal.

A day has passed as Birds sing a song.
Has thou worshipped like them and theirs Anthem?
Has thou let guide thouself , just as them?
And waken up thy Highness, ‘t glorious Sun.

A random dots hovering in rounds.
Sole God knows what them moves makes,
And the force that them bounds,
Gathering them, and them rakes,

Upon the blue of the blue of the sky,