No Sonnet This

I am not only a bubble in the sky . . .
and neither are you . . .
we are trouble on the wing,
a world where we may belong.

We are people grown old
and know the syllables of youth and love.
We hear secrets that none of us knew
before we learned to skip and sing,
We cannot move down river
preferring one side or the other
nor float the cool of the Willamette
lost in the rocks along the way . . .

You will know who I am
crashing and singing;
I am no outcast except by choice
I sit alone studying Joyce . . .
more like an alley cat
than an honest polygot . . .

I strive, I strive
I am still alive.

Hills in Berkeley

If you're going to be in Berkeley
please visit our old friends . . .
don't say that I sent you,
just check if she's okay.
She needs no message from me;
I am home where the Oregon rolls.

Promise me a taste of tomorrow
and I'll sing you a ballad of today.
Yes, yesterday is probably gone
but we sing the simplest of songs,
shouting out as much love as we know.
I am home where the Oregon rolls.

We will sing, dance, cry and play
The Little Red Hen was our friend.