Old Mind Poems
Six hoboes played oboes in a rowboat.
The lake got tossy, and the rocks were mossy.
Rain drummed the land made mostly of sand,
and the sky got mighty bossy.
My heart strings thrumbled
when the high clouds grumbled,
and a bolt of light leapt from depth to height
and into the lake I tumbled.
I swam and bam and slam and blam.
I awoke from a stroke -- I knew --
when the wet sun rested on a plate of blue.
Johnny Pogo Medeiros, May 2017
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