Venice

The Venice Beats
the rhythm
of their words
sound of huarache's
on a misty morning's
wet cobble stone streets

black ink pen
in hand
and a blank page
touching the face of God
their words
echo down
those breezeways...
protesting
for the "Lady"
mans mad anger
looking for another road
slowly ..migrating
to a" mile high mountain"
in Denver
their faces
now etched in stone

in Hawaii
on a six mile high
mountain
a tree
touches
the face of God
a Koa tree planted
for the poets

words falling
blowing in the breeze
filling the page

THE POET-TREE

shanna