The Word Farmer rises,
Never before dawn for his
Seeds take life in the night.
They form their bodies by the light
Of an electrical bulb of humming thought.
He gently, lovingly, but sometimes violently
Plants his linguistic sprouts in a freshly
Tilled field of white empty rows at times
Straight, at times arcing to the left
Or to the right, but always deep.
He cherishes them,
The little plantlings,
Taking great care, toiling,
Sweating, hands rough from the plowing pen
Giving them life and strength, which is their purpose.
The Word Farmer tills the hungry soil of his mind
Quenching its thirst from a life fount, deep
Under earthen flesh that beats and pumps
To touch roots soon to be born.
It is the Farmer’s hope 
That his force is not in vain
And every drop of sweat from his 
weathered brow is not wasted on invention
but rather the natural course of things which man seeks.
For a man will shrivel and die if not given food
To satisfy the hunger of his want of dream.
This is the venture of the Word Farmer.
Plant, nurture, grow, harvest…
And feed the world.
                        

a candle burns with life’s flame
her own strong casting protective
shadow over the small one near her.
her light joins the young flame
dancing on the wall
she stoic the impish one free
innocent.
 
armory open lock not forged
no keeper it roams freely
on terror wheels to snuff
flames with wicked breath
out of mother candles reach
cowardly.
 
shock wave cannon fire
breaks up the fiery waltz
feared breath comes for the
tiny flame too soon for there
is still much light left to shine
but the cannon comes still comes
taking.
 
mother candle dances alone on
the silenced darkened wall
but now her desolate flame
the unfortunate one that
cannon passed by burns alone
weeping wax
every inch, a mile.
 
she welcomes feared breath
invites it seeks it
but she is not it’s master 
her light dimmer a flitter
but still no breath she stumbles on
bleeding wax
every inch, a mile.
 
when will the cannon
cease to fire? when will
its dreaded breath be thwarted?
until then lone candles 
cast lone shadows down empty halls
wondering why it came so soon
too soon
at all
while she burns on
pooling wax
every inch,
a mile.