By the time I’m done tongue wagging you son,

You’re gonna wish you hung up by a tree in full sun,

One day at least maybe more, some say that we keesed,

And a baby was born. But it wasn’t was it? It seems

That these dreams are being held off a bit for greater

Ones in the not too distant future. And, I don’t know if

When this hits if its gonna hurt her or hurt him, but on

A whim I wrote it, and I hope that it comes across

As a bit of a toss and a plan.

Some may not see the planning in the initial stages,

Some may see the planning at the beginning but not the end,

Some may befriend at the beginning and act seven ages,

Neither winning or losing but simply being as a friend.

Mend this time to see the plan,

Whether you live in New York or Afghanistan,

You are a woman or a man, child or aged.

This mild and meek tempest will not be caged,

But can perhaps at least not get enraged,

With the simple idea that I stood,

Though I could have ran.

I chose not to.

This high and tight is low and loose,

And I don’t want to have a plan.

Though I climb up in my tree house,

And stand on my tip-toes to see the stars,

Sadly, choices can change, plans can get loused,

And even dreams can have their bars.

But I don’t need the time at the very start,

I will keep to myself and be the only one to hear my own words,

They twist, they turn, they tease in part,

And fly across the page like almost, but not quite, angry birds.