Pansy

Poetry communicates
As everybody knows;
This foliage importunicates
Perhaps it's more like prose.

The garden of the poet's mind
Is full of flowers and fun.
You never vegetate and find
You've withered in the sun.

A lyric poem's full of hort-
Iculturalist humour;
No perfumed bed receives my thought –
I herein make no bloomer.

It won't help you (It won't please me)
To ponder this my pain:
It's not through this you'll come to see
My garden in the rain.

No flowers sing, the concrete's set,
I've only words to say
That you could germinate them yet,
But this falls by the way.

The poem shows the poet sows
But everybody knows
You will not know it when it grows
The unexpected tulip.

Secretary of Death

Fate has decreed
that I should meet my end
rat tat tat
through some inaccessible part of me
even to myself
with a black, sharp file
rat tat tat
machine gun types on
that name on that fatal file
take a letter, yes sir
rat tat tat
secretary of death
angel