Urban Solar System

Friday

Friday

End of the week, as if they're discrete.
Who authors my art, as if that were clear.
Days gone by, and weekend to come.
Who's eyes read my prose, none? Some?

Letters: technology with limits afar.
Friday's here: door now ajar.
Bend them and hammer them, on keyboards gone by.
Into the weekend, my train wreck will fly.

Train during the week, for fun after hours.
Technology created, and now man doth cower?
Red wine and cheese to lube up the night.
Electronic eyes and laser powered sight.

The winds now are measured to tenths of a bit.
And the weekend awaits to clear head of shit.
Storms they do say, will overpower all the people.
So Sunday's the day when you run for the steeple.

And the steeple and the chase, pushed faster by bytes.
Connected they say at the tight speed of light.
Friday night pictures, the lines now do blur.
Yet sharper then ever on the digital purr.

Like weekends and week days, society's more slurry.
Like pleasure and pain, power and worry.
Coupled and continuous, life discrete and acheived.
So jump out of the box with joie de vivre.

---
George Dyke

Sweet Kiss

Ah the sweet kiss of summer is in the air.
Were it not for you, I'd know nothing more fair.
All the words that were writ, on a sunny Spring day.
Cannot add up to the joy you bring me.

All the time that banks up, stones in a pail.
Visions of you, the wind in my sail.
Winds back to wind, like rust back to rust.
To blow another day, when spirit needs a gust.

The "L's" and the "H's" blow 'cross the land.
Calculations, predictions, and the counting of sand.
But the heat of the sun, warms the scent from the soil.
And you're the genuine Spring, with summer on the boil.

---
George Dyke