Cliches

Why is it hard to believe
That child is the father of man?
Why is it so hard to see
What chips off the block might be?

A chip off the ol' block
Just as smooth, just as rough,
As soft, as hard, as strong
Smaller? May be, but rarely weaker.

The little things make the big.
The big beget the small.
The world runs on circles.
and circles go on forever.

Things that flow, or don't

Words tumble, the season's first rains
Into a well - dry and waiting
Blank pages fill up. Lines appear
Pages become books.
SOunds-Words-Meanings.
One leads to the other.

The well fills up.
Like a heart thats' been waiting
for someone to love
Feelings, like water flow
One to another, they say
One to another and back again.

But what do you do,
When you've built a dam
around your heart, your page, your well?
Nothing flows, but in fits and starts
Both, words and feelings -
They tumble out. Surprise you.

All it takes is just one crack
Thoughts. words. Feelings. Water.
Trickles become deluges
The wall crumbles
Leaving you an open path
To a place you deny existence.

Voodoo Child

The voodoo child hangs by a thread
from an old oak tree
all sticks of wood and string is she
Listlessly gazing upon the dead...

Life's past her by,
the little lonely voodoo child
no one knows, no one cares
to approach her, no one dares.

A wooden face, a triangular head
hangs low for the world to see
just a little bit like you and me
curled softly sobbing upon the bed...

Life's past us by,
like the little lonely voodoo child
no one knows, no one cares
to approach us, no one really dares

The others see her and shake their head
As far away as Tuscany
to understand them, this is the key:
What they don't know is what they dread

Life passes her by
the lonely little voodoo child
no one knows, no one cares
they don't approach her, it’s just not fair.