POEMS BY TRAVIS

KEEPERS OF THE DAISIES


	Yellow hillside in the distance
	field of daisies, sway in the wind
	as the green leaves of the trees
	shelter pixies underneath.
	Pearly petals, sun-gold stamen
	lift above the mushroom haven.
	Caps of fungus, shade is found
	as the pixies fly about, whispering
	through the blades of grass,
	tall and slender as they pass.
	Sprinkle flavor of their dust
	on the earth=92s rich thick crust,
	more daisies, this will surely bring
	as the fairies play and sing.

			~travis d. keune~

_______________________________________________________________________
	UPON A POWDERED CLOUD


	Upon a powdered cloud
	she lies in modesty, sailing
	a sky so enormous,
	so endless, she navigates
	through these many obstacles
	with her dignity in hand
	and her flowing hair
	of pure, untainted innocence.
	She maneuvers with freedom strides
	among ancient God=92s eyes,
	a Goddess herself
	she witnesses all that matters.
	Life is born from her,
	pain belongs to her
	and she does not quiver.
	The clouds move swiftly
	blowing through her hair,
	but she does not let loose
	this hold she has on survival.
	An instinct which she knows
	and provides her with the balance
	needed not to fall
	from this height with which she travels.
	Among the rest of us she lives
	although, she exists on a separate plane
	of eternal significance.
	Her bosom, the gift of nourishment.
	We are quickly weaned
	from the comfort of our mothers,
	our sisters and our queens.

			~travis d. keune~

_______________________________________________________________________
	THE STORYTELLING LAKE


	The gentle boy whom, every summer
	visits this hollow in the hills, a lake
	nestled closely, surrounded by mountains
	peaks and valleys, so great the echo
	in these caverns, up and down the rushing stream
	which empties from the cleaved pikes,
	into the calm body of virgin water
	on which it's edge, this young boy sits.
	No docks, nor dams do break the waves
	so gentle too, the lake of swans
	birds of beauty flock this way, every summer
	gaggles flourish in it's wake, a haven for
	any lover, but not this summer
	for on this month of humid august
	only a boy does occupy the stony shore.
	A ledge of perfect pebbles, varied
	in their own special ways, some fat and round
	and others smooth.  The flat ones offer
	pleasure to the child, with each summer past
	a game of tossing rocks so flat
	into the calmness of the spring, a life itself
	which spring does bring forth, post winter haste
	and snow caps from mountain tops, do melt
	and with it comes a dance of life, of swans
	and fish, and wildflowers.  Trees of green
	with tiny white flowers, evergreens who=92ve fought
	the harsh winds of the cold, to stay alive
	remain along the mountain sides.
	Underneath an earthy shadow, the boy sits
	stares out onto the lake, dandelion in hand
	he lifts to his feet and reaches for a stone,
	dropping the fresh plucked and brilliant gold
	of early summer, scurries toward the pond of tears
	collection of a world's stories, told in every ripple
	circles of the recent and the past, a boy
	whom knows of nothing, rather than the fun he has
	in watching wrinkles in the glass-like serenity,
	a fragile porcelain sheath, broken.
	Reforming to it's natural state, the boy
	removes another stone, perfect as he sees it fit
	to make a leap in the sunlit pool of playful dreams,
	rears his arm, chucking the discuss hard and fast
	eyes are glued, he squints to peer through
	ribbons of sunlight flailing about the tiny waves
	as the skipper makes it=92s journey, bouncing
	further, further more.  A distance the boy can see no more.
	Surprise is stuck upon his face, a look of joy
	astonishment enters the pure silk lake, a story told
	a boy who sought to see his goal, a perfect stone
	one would skip forever known, throughout the water
	he could see, the stone returns each summer as he.

				~travis d. keune~

_______________________________________________________________________
	THE DOVE...


	The dove which perches so
	delicately on my window sill,
	had roosted here so long ago
	and gawks at me persistently.

	This dove of which
	no knowledge it gives
	for me to reason why,
	nor reason to forgive.

	That dove does gawk at me
	and furious I become
	as I contest to ignore
	the fowl which hell comes from.

	Ignorant Dove!
	Why for are you there
	as cold seasons approach,
	or do you care?

	Sad little dove,
	a loneliness I condole
	with every breathe I take
	and lose a piece of my soul.

	I cry for you, tiny dove
	and wish for you the best
	of tidings in your venture
	to live and pass the test.

			~travis d. keune~

______________________________________________________________________