No God,

From eternity to eternity,

Everything that matters,

Comes to nothing.

In the doldrums of this long and cold winter’s blight,
I dream of spring time blossoms in the night.
In pretty purple, red, yellow and white dresses the crocuses display,
Unfolding themselves above the carpet of snow and in the sunlight glare.
Sweet smells of French lilacs fill the air around.
Daffodils and tulips with their bright colors abound.
The grandeur of the cherry and apple blossoms covered trees.
Ah, I wonder what the springtime blossoms will bring for you and me.

Will it be blossoms of charity, mercy, pleasure and blessings?
Or will it be blossoms of bitterness, regrets, disappointments and crying?
They quickly turn brown, fade and lay bare,
The wind will blow and carry them all away.
The blossoms are not upset with the wind as it blows,
Nor do they weep as they fall to the ground and are no more.
But if you do not forgive the wind and are sore,
It will bring you bitterness to your soul every time it blows.

The fruits of the blossoms take time to ripen.
The seasons are long and some are shortened.
As some fall to the ground before their time,
Aphids and caterpillars infest some before their prime.
The weather can be too wet or too dry, you see,
It is never constant or the way it is suppose to be.
Judgements are plentiful and they come suddenly like a tornado,
And if you let them overwhelm you, sadness will flow.

Harvest comes and there are fruits of blessings to be picked and eaten.
Mercies and charity are left for the squirrels and birds, never to be forgotten.
For some there are no fruits but or simply blossoms of pleasure.
Others bare sour fruits of disappointment and regrets for sure.
Some are fruitful and multiply to bring blossoms again for the spring, next year.
Past blossoms are forgotten and there are no answers or insights, I fear.
But to see spring time blossoms again, my spirit lifts and my soul to cheer.
All pretty and sweet smelling blossoms of hope for this new spring time year.

How I do love them, pigeons,
Boiled, stuffed or barbequed.
Oh, it’s more than that!
It is their attitude
And treating everyone equally.
That I admire.

For us homonoids
Too much regard is paid,
To respect and positions,
Wealth or fame,
Young or old.
But pigeons do not give a shit.

They just do not care,
To whom you dedicate the statues.
It can be to presidents, kings or queens,
Poets, artists or movie stars.
Heroes or heroines.
The pigeons will just shit on them anytime.

Pigeons can sit on their heads,
Their shoulders or arms,
Or even on their noses or laps.
They will leave their droppings,
At anytime or anywhere,
And they do not even care.

You can try to wash it,
Or you can try to shoo them away.
But pigeons are not easily intimidated,
Frightened or even concern.
As they will always come back,
And let you know they are there.

You can always train your pigeons,
But you can never tell them,
Who to honour or to respect.
Pigeons will always do their deed,
And to whosoever they please.
That is why I love them pigeons.