Another Me


I'm mostly not the me you see,
For inside, I'm a different me.
As different just as one can be,
As a butterfly to a white queen bee.

The other me is not real at all,
But made of the substance of thought.
The other me is not bone and blood,
But sounds from a songbird's throat.

I dance on the air, play debonaire,
My spirit laughs out loud.
I speak with God, count peas in a pod
And play with a gnome in a cloud.

The other me can float on a breeze
And talk to the trees or a flower.
The other me is not me at all,
But a spirit that dreams in a bower.
It ebbs and flows, like a petal blows -
(My loved- one's jokes are mean).
So much of me is not what you see,
But ethereal as yesterday's dream...

But a lively pain -
a sharp call of my name,
Can make me feel quite real again!

POEMS

With a tendency to form rhymes in the earlier poems, I became more and more free, with the passage of years
I’m a bird that knows not flight is something humans envy But casually, swiftly through our great, iridescent sky moves. There, with sure uplifting wing
to sing a song
to touch a soul –
a precious, sensuous thing.

Poems Categories