MokkTurtle

The rueful prick of a thorn The sticky film of honey The warm pavement on a day that’s sunny The soft coat of a dog forlorn The roughness of boots so tattered and worn The fluffy tail of a bunny When you think about it, it’s funny That of these textures we are born We know our world through touch Bunnies look soft because they have been Thorns look sharp because they’ve been pricked And through observing we’ve established much About this crazy world we live in But, our hands cannot be tricked

It’s said that there are only four The first is bitter like black coffee The second is sweet like cool iced tea Then there’s sour which makes your lips pucker Finally the salty which holds untapped power There’s also one called Umami Which is from what I understand the slightest salty However, I feel these divisions are not worth the stupor Does color not exist in various shades and textures Does sound not span across a range of opera Does scent not lie on a spectrum as well When you divide senses into separate structures I feel the beauty leaves the phenomena Whether I am right, only time will tell

The refreshing whiff of sprouting fruit The strong perfume of wildflowers The petrichor right before evening showers The earthy smell of an exposed root Even the average brute Knows of these scent’s powers And with them through the hours Nature plays its beautiful flute This sense is often forgotten Yet still it would be dreadful If ever you were to lose this ability You’d know not what was rotten Nor the scents of blanketing wool Nor the calming tide of tea

The distant crash of a fallen tree The subtle whistle of a blue jay The rushing of the waterway The simple buzzing of the bee None of these we can see Very few of them we can relay But still we know what each say We understand their beauty Sound seems constant Sound seems beautiful Sound seems new Sound is resistant Sound is wonderful Sound is me and you

The beauty of the lake so blue The colors of the sky The fact alludes me as to why I’m drawn to things such as you It seems a foolish thing to do Yet no matter how I try You lead me ever awry Focusing on your hue The crisp green of jagged leaves The tender white of new fallen snow Or the utter blackness of nightfall Through this our world weaves A beautiful Technicolor show Open and free to all

That’s right be not afraid I’m back That is not to say I once was front Instead I speak of the severe lack Of my poetic stunts I’ve once again dawned my rhyming shoes Though how my feet relate I know not It was a rather peculiar appendage to chose But, I fear no answer can be sought The fact is simple, clear as day I’ve picked up the proverbial quill Though birds of sky do not dismay ‘Twas taken from one who fell ill A rather odd poem I’ve procured It appears that I just implied I stole a feather from a sickly bird Fear not though hippies I lied Great, now I’ve upset the hippies Perhaps this is

Night, it is such a curious time When the sun will no longer shine And the grasshoppers begin to chime And the verses begin to rhyme Night is when the moon appears So some light adheres To abolish all fears The moon however soon disappears No light remains Then everyone disdains And feels deep pains Of a million banes This absence of light May enduce a great plight Because of the loss of sight And with it all other delight However this time is called New Moon As if to assure people it is fickle It will not last Soon the light will return However upon its return The light is not as intense It is a fleeting memory Of the good there once