Missing Fruit

Kind words are rarely clever;

clever talk is seldom kind, still

he builds the little platforms for

the windmills of his mind.

Those mills use up some yardage

in a yard with little space,

as he crowds his own dominion

with things that hide his face.

Such things are not organic -

those organs of success

that play their faulty music

inside his hollow chest.

“The sides must be protected!” -

at the centre all is quiet.

So truth is most neglected

except where he can buy it.

[Exception is the norm now

except for once or twice

when through the mental storms now

he glimpsed a Great Suffice]

He started planting seedlings,

that seedless, saltless sage,

who traded Kind for Clever and

sold Wisdom for a wage.

The wise man he is fruitful

and fruitfulness is peace;

he knows his yard needs yardage

for bushes, plants and trees.

He breaks up all that’s fallow;

he chops up all that’s “good”

which doesn’t pass inspection

by the Inspector of Good Food.

So inspect your own dominion,

examine all that’s there

and ask yourself this question,

“Is it foul or is it fair?”

Do not protect your shadow

where the old branch is so bare.

Do not pretend to Plenty

with plastic pineapples and pears.

Change your life direction,

reject the Clever for the Kind;

don’t live on in your dissection,

In your chants of “Hey, I’m fine”

There is a plough and ripper

There are more seeds to find

To help replace the Failure

Of the windmills of your mind