20 something days

On the 20 something of November,
  no sooner than the cold wind starts to appear
in everything i write
 with each chill and its progression
   down or up the spine,
      an obvious diagram
  the science of which
        a fear,more than a fact
   i believe will arrive,
totalling the oddities i carry
      in my impregnated womb of verse,
          the misunderstood women
     and children i speak for,
   the trees and their unmoving behaviour
       the sky,the moon     their shadowing
apprentices all putting in their
       uninspiring shifts,
   and men bent around them

    into believing,
         if they already didn't
 that a poem is often baseless
      and i wear it
 for 20 something days a month,
        like a hat over my heart

Waiting for the Bus 7:14 am.(Bus note)

Late buses arrive,
  and it is almost worthwhile now,
 to note the ones that do
    Mornings however,can be worse,
 emptying teacups
    deluged by your listlessness

A bus note for he who runs it around these corners Wooden boy

Peace offerings

But we thought our differences
   weren't the disorder
  we came to be known for,
 But we thought the juveniles
    didn't overstep their girdle
  for a lack of toys
     But we thought they weren't
expected to come of age
         the toys,the children alone
       And so we prefixed our visions
with their uninvolved,honest calibrations
           of growth,of the world
  so much so that they nearly convinced us
                as well..