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Paul E Sexton

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Dallas, TX, US

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What We Truly Are

by

Paul E Sexton

Fundamentally wrong.
That’s how we live.
How our world spins around.
Mental illness is a manifestation of
a cultural psychoneurosis
revealed in the individual.
Chemical addiction and
Chemical imbalance and
Manic Depression and
Stress Anxiety Syndrome and
Multiple Personality Disorder and
uncontrollable rage are
seething gaping tattered holes torn
in the well accepted tapestry of social dishonesty.

We believe that material wealth is a measure of worth.
We believe that human life can be measured in statistics.
We believe in objectifying others to get what we want.
We believe that sexual promiscuity is somehow liberating.
We believe simply going to work each day is an acceptable use of a lifetime.
We believe that needing mind-altering chemicals to feel good makes sense.
We believe that purchased possessions have value.
We believe that true love is anachronistic.
We believe the ends justify the means.
We believe we’ll have time to relax in our old age.
We believe our governments fulfill a social contract.
We believe in get them before they get you.
We believe that idle hands are the devils workshop.
We believe in survival of the fittest.
We believe in nuclear proliferation.
We believe that what you see is what you get.
We believe what we see on television.
We believe in plastic surgery.
We believe in acceptable losses.
We believe in destroying our own planet.
We believe, We believe, We believe
We believe that we are indestructible!

We are the living antithesis
of what we truly are and
in our unbridled desire
we are self destruction personified.

The lie is that it all has meaning.
The lie is that there are no other choices.
The lie is that one individual doesn’t make a difference.
The lie is that there are no consequences.
The lie is that we don’t cause our own suffering.
The lie is that money and possession mean more than people Or love.
The lie is that mental illness is an aberration
and that something is wrong with individuals so diagnosed.

STOP!
Lets just stop!

Breathe deeply and slowly.
Actually feel the air flowing back out again.
Stop and Look.
Look for the answers
waiting to be discovered
in between each BREATH.

Heavy

by

Paul E Sexton

It hangs heavy!
The sky hangs heavy.
Winter hangs heavy.
Bird sounds.
Rain sounds.
Cold breath in moist air.
My heart hangs heavy.
WORDS,
her small words
hang heavy,
Burdonsom
hanging in the thick hospital air
are feelings
are lost raindrops
sliding tomorrows away.
The future hangs heavy.
The truth hangs heavy.
The sky hangs lower and
seems to be squeezing us all into place.
Mood hangs heavy.
Questions hang unanswered.
Secrets unrevealed FESTER away.
Imagery hangs heavy.
Last parts of sentences hang heavy
and remain.
Bits hang heavy.
Parts hang heavy.
The whole hangs heavy.
When she is needed.
When she is needed.
The need hangs heavy.
Her mouth seems candy.
The need hangs heavy.
Bits and pieces of a man
spread out through time and space
from now until the eighties
NOW
all broken up.
The pieces hang heavy.
Everything hangs heavy.
I hang heavy.
IT HANGS HEAVY!

Anatta

by

Paul E Sexton

I am not my thoughts.
my thoughts are not me.
I am not my thoughts.
my thoughts are not me.

NO streaming fleeting tiny bluish
electromagnetic neural synaptic pulse
defines my existence,
fixes my nature.

Nor am I swirling primal fragments
thrown together captured
forming stagnant photographic images
of what I am.

I am evolution walking.
I am impermanence personified.

I am not my thoughts.
my thoughts are not me.
I am not my thoughts.
my thoughts are not me.

A Million Kisses

by

Paul E Sexton

I wanted to write you a poem
called "A Million Kisses"
remembering each and every kiss.

The very first time
I tasted your lips,
having only just begun
to get to know you,
we were about to go
our separate ways.
But your slow calm voice
with a slight breath
between each word,
and girlish scrunched up smile,
were an urging pleading song
exploding inside the moment
crying out, for a kiss.

You see, your eyes, kittenish
in a half scared slow motion way
drew me in to you.
it was More like melting
than like kissing.
To soft and slow and warm to tell
where my mouth ended yours began.

The kisses I had for your mouth and
face and cheeks and neck and
all the shutting eyes,
exhale deeply places,
seemed to last until the sun
had slipped into the sky,
and they were ours,
they belonged to us.

It was if a million kissed lips
desperate, wanting, burning,
from a million vivid time lost lifetimes,
from a million fluid yesterdays.
had Opened up a doorway
into a million sexy soft tomorrows,
full of gentle promise yet to come.
And I wanted you, I had to have you.

To have and to hold.
For Better or for worse.
I held on to you.

Now, When the night is deep
and my eyes squeeze slightly open
in the hazy red half light of the clock.
The dripping honey female curving
of your girl soft sleeping shoulder
seems to hold a moment
so gently gasping still.

And I know,
that I possess a million
tiny delicate lustful kisses
that belong to you.
That they should be poured
on to your lovely succulent
silent sleeping form.

I wanted to write you a poem
called a "Million Kisses"
because I wanted you to know
that here, next to you
always wanting never empty.
I‘ll always have a million kisses
yet to give.

Waiting by the Watershed

by

Paul E Sexton

Poised on edge of plastic chair
scoping winterscape in
rain filled graywashed scene.

Seen through aluminum
and green plastic verticals
while drips, drip on.

Must be fifty degrees.
Must be nearing the
end of everything.

The patio is where the patients come
to sit and smoke cigarettes
and chat.
Some cry
because they hurt so bad
they can no longer pretend
not to.

THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED

UNDER THE GRAY WET WINTER.

To mourn the loss of expectation,
of our grasp on the impermanent.

Spiritual pilgrims in the cold church
of those who love life
no longer.

I hear highway traffic and airplanes.
I see dead trees
and dying dreams.

THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED.

Must be nearing the end
of everything.

The Warm embrace of Shadows

by

Paul E Sexton

I saw two shadows embrace
in January’s crisp morning sun,
and felt their faceless passion.
I turned to see what creatures
could have cast them,
but they were outside
I was in.

In here there were
red windows
blue windows
yellow windows
green windows
men in uniform
men in brown jackets
wearing sunglasses.
Pairs of people drinking coffee
intent upon each others words
and a fresh faced infant
sitting at a table by himself.

Out there were
people driving in cars
having sex in their homes.
Getting and losing jobs
and arguing with those they truly love.
There were traffic signals perpetually changing
and there was more and more and more
LIQUID SUNLIGHT

POURING DOWN
FROM ABOVE.

One of the shadows EXHALED
shadow smoke
and it climbed tall
into shadow sky.

They seemed to melt together
those two silhouettes
and waiver, through the window
and no one or nothing
had seen
what I had seen.

The Stabbing Silent Air Between Two Lovers

by

Paul E Sexton

Your silence hurts
more than
a thousand words
could ever hurt.
Every stabbing
non-speaking
moment
lingers very heavy
in the air.

If only
those lips
I’ve loved to touch
would part
and spark
a word or two.

About

thoughts, feelings
whatever.

We could break
this painful silence
and

resume our love
again.

Deep Ellum Sunrise

by

Paul E Sexton

We were swept up,
like tales of timeless romance.
From crowded festival sidewalk scene
into back alley parking lot dreams.
Where we found our cars
OUT OF ONE THOUSAND CARS
parked side by side.
Where we found
that the simple touch of skin on skin
could create synaptic explosion.
Where we found
that when certain people
look long into each others eyes
not a million spoken words
not a million written sentences
can say as much.

Even as a Buddhist
the notion of past lives
was never completely real to me
until now that is
because I must have known you
somewhere, sometime before.

That strange blue light
that made red roses seem purple
radiating through wide open window
in cozy little candle lit reastraunt
captured your silky smooth skin
and sexy soft moist eyes
frozen in time
like stop motion flashbulb imagery,
forever remembered
like the great beauties of antiquity.
Like Gwenivere, Cleopatria or Helen of Troy
here you were in the flesh
in front of me
all they were and more.

You have the primal energy
of a sensual exciting young girl
and the substance, grace, and soul
of an independent, somewhat balanced, woman
You are my fantasies realized.

I am excited by the sound of your voice,
the touch of your skin, the smell of your hair,
the look in your eyes, the feel of your lips
the expressions on your face
the words that you speak
the feelings you feel
the thoughts that you think
the pure energy that flows from you
and pours in to me!
I am completely and overwhelmingly
excited by you.
You are day by day by night by night
by moment by moment, new life.

When I’m with you, there is no future.
When I’m with you there is no past.
Only the here
only the now
only the us,
and it FEELS like enough.

And still
the image of that first night
that first magic night
is haunting.

Standing by parked car at 6:00 am
chilly wind blowing
through silent abandoned streets
and our EMBRACE
seemed timeless.
I reached out and touched your face
so very gently
and tilted you toward the light
of a mystic DEEP ELLUM sunrise
and in that pale blue light I saw
one thousand
unwritten poems
lingering
in your eyes.

I Return to Them

by

Paul E Sexton

I pull up.
Family in the yard.
I watch his face
waiting
for the recognition
to click.
Yea, there it is.
He knows it’s me.
I love that little smile.
I’ll be sad
I think
when he gets so old
he doesn’t wobble
when he walks.
Open door
he climbs up
determined face
grabs the wheel
turning, beep, beep
we pick up
a beautiful
female passenger
and his eyes grow wide
with true depth
of feeling
and a serious look.
He calls out
MA-MA.!!

Truly
I must be
more alive
than all
the childless people
living alone
behind
still
silent
walls

Of Flight and Sight

by

Paul E Sexton

Backyard Barbecue
upper-class neighborhood
funny 1970’s rock and roll
cover band lead singer
bright shiny sport coat
feelings of alienation
and end of week
rampdown.
Up above
in clear dusk sky
a V shaped flock
of migrating geese
wander listlessly
through ancient air.
They fly that way
so the ones in front
absorb the windshear
for the ones behind.
A cooperative effort
that would likely form
a straight line
except that their eyes
are one the sides
of the head,
and with only
peripheral vision,
they choose to view
one another
while flying.
Unlike us,
who have the capacity
to clearly see
what is right in front of us
but often choose not to.
Also, when we travel
desperate highways
we rarely cooperate
with one another
while inside of our cars.
It’s getting darker.
So I walk away,
leaving
the geese to the geese
and the men
to their lifeless
Rock and Roll.

Of Babies

by

Paul E Sexton

"Don’t kill the baby pigeons!"
I heard Thais say to her mother.
She was having the house painted
and there was a nest with baby pigeons
up high in one corner.

The painter didn’t want to move them.
He was either scared that they would peck his face
or perhaps he also didn’t wish to harm the babies.
Either way
there was quite a bit of controversy
and they wouldn’t begin the painting.

There was talk of a professional bird rescue guy
but he probably wouldn’t bother with pigeons
being the bird equivalent of a rat.

I was asked to moved the nest,
but as a Buddhist
I refrain from harming or taking the life
of any living being.

I suggested that we simply paint around the nest.
That an unpainted spot
on our house
up high near the roof
was less important than the life
of any living being.
In the end
that is what they did.

One week later
we are both standing
in front of the dresser
dressing for work,
and in a moment of silence
we hear the morning song
of baby bird.

Thais smiles wistfully
and says in that little girl voice
" I’m sure glad they didn’t kill
those baby pigeons!"
" Me too sweetie"
I answer.

A hug
and a kiss
then off to work.
Driving away from a house
where we will soon have a baby
who will grow up safely
and someday point up to the unpainted spot
nest long gone
and ask why it is there.
I will gladly tell him.

One by One

by

Paul E Sexton

Fine army’s

of strong

black ants

MARCH

foreword

to an

unanticipated

DEATH

by drowning

delivered

from the hose

at the

edge

of my

kitchen

sink.

Earl Grey

by

Paul E Sexton

Twinkling
Neon Gas
marks your exit.

Each screeching
guitar drum beat
sound wave
calls forth
memory.

I breathe
I breathe
the shadows
are tall and high.

February just
gave way
to March.

Youth just
gave way

to age.

I sit
DEEPLY
here.

No new rebirth
No colliding Cortex.

Just more Twinkling
quietly drinking
EARL GREY.

I must be part

of the evolutionary
process.
Molded by enviroment
FIT
to survive.

Come
and go.

and I sit DEEPLY
here.

Spinning.

Black September

by

Paul E Sexton

At age nineteen
the sweetest thing
you’ve ever seen.
It was her birthday,
and the free lunch at Denney’s
wasn’t quite finished.
And September was warm.
And her smile was warm.
And the Black knitted
spiderweb patterned outfit
that hugged her form
so snugly,
suggested nineteen
suggested September
suggested life.
" See ya later sweetie"
" I love you"
with a pleasant hug goodbye.

Henry Harvey Saint,
of Dallas, thirty something,
pickup truck, suspected D.W.I.
Baylor Hospital, Volkswagen
Ms. Dobson, passenger.
Ms. Dobson, of Arlington
Ms. Dobson, instantly
something a.m.

September turned black
ALL Septembers turned black.
Black print on yellowing clipping
conjures images of black clad
shell shocked mourners,
now slightly less immortal
asking why.

So many drunken nights spent crying.
So many drunken nights spent driving.
Seeking deaths embrace.
Seeking solace in shadows.
Remembering black clad smiles.
Remembering sweetest words.
Remembering hugs goodbye.
Remembering unspoken words of love.
Remembering nineteen.
Remembering nineteen.
Again
and again.

I Fade

by

Paul E Sexton

do
people fade
like
wilting flowers
or
animal forms
in
a cloud filled
sky?

I
may be fading
now,
like a small
reservoir
of rainwater
under
a
midday
sun.

Dhammakitty

by

Paul E Sexton

The love of my life was fast asleep.
The Roommate was rhythmically plucking the highest
string on his guitar
in strange stacatto stanzas,
while staring empty at the wall.
The teevee droned on and on
about a man who cheated on a woman
with her friend, and the friends boyfriend.
The day had been rainy and dark.
The job search was deadening.
The bank account was melting slowly away.
The neighbors were screaming again
and the old floors were creaking loud.
I walked into the kitchen to feed the hungry CAT
and I could smell the gas stove.
I could smell the dirty dishes.
I reached into the cabinet, grabbed the food
filled the bowel and the cat walked

smoothly slowly in
FAT YET SLEEK.
He stared hard, eyes to eyes
then spoke saying;
"One who conquers himself is greater then another
who conquers a thousand times a thousand men
on a battlefield.
Be victorious over yourself, not others
for when you attain victory over yourself
not even the GODS can turn it into defeat."

I fell to my knees and wept
on that dirty kitchen floor
for enlightenment suddenly seemed
a distant and far away shore!

The Internal War Continues With Battle 1001

by

Paul E Sexton

Forward flying
front facing
me.
Square jawed
masked unmasked
feet never
touching the ground.
Never knowing
stopping.
Always going
no rest
for my head
no rest
for my heart
no rest for
me.
I hope she stays.
No more jobs.
Too many years
gone by.
Have to succeed.
Friends are leaving.
I miss her already.
Gotta see the doctor.
Hate being poor.
Loser, Loser, Loser.
Gotta get in shape.
I really love her.
I really love her.
Just a poet.
Gotta be a poet.
Gotta be a poet.
What have I forgotten?
What about the future?
What about the future?
Must live up
to all
expectations.
The monkey mind.
The rats.
The days.
The nights.
All lay
on the floor
on the walls
on the street
Midnights
in diners,
lifetimes
in turmoil.

THE GRIND

by

Paul E Sexton

Get up, fight the traffic,
work all day, fight the traffic
go home, eat dinner go to bed.
Get up fight the traffic
work all day, fight the traffic
go home eat dinner go to bed.
Get up, fight the traffic
work all day, fight the traffic
go home eat dinner, go to bed.
It's the GRIND.
and millions of people live it.
and it robs from them
Robs precious moments.
Moments to love.
Moments to Create
Moments to reflect and seek

and learn and grow.
Moments to breathe and live.
Moments that when added together

are all we have that make up life!
Moments that once they are gone
can never be replaced
all ground up into little bits
inside the GRIND.
You can try not grinding
not fighting, not eating
not sleeping, not working
we all try it at one time or another
but what about stuff?
a car and a place to be
and a family and someone
and everything that comes and goes.

Believe it or not,
sometimes it takes more work
not to grind than to grind.
It's like swimming up stream
all of the time.
So do what you can.
So be who you can.
So love who you love.
and enjoy every precious
special fleeting passing
non-returnable moment,
Because it's all we have
it's all we know
it's all we are
THE GRIND
Get up, fight the traffic
work all day, fight the traffic
go home, eat dinner go to bed.
Get up, fight the traffic
work all day, fight the traffic
go home, eat dinner go to bed.
Get up fight the traffic
work all day, fight the traffic
go home, eat dinner, go to bed...

He Is The Best

by

Paul E Sexton

It’s almost
As if he knew.

How sad I was.

He kept hugging me
all through dinner
and putting food in my mouth
and saying MMMMM!!!!!
He kept grabbing my head
and giving me big kisses,
then smiling and laughing.
He would point at me
And happily announce
daaadee!! daaadeee!!
Then hug me again
And say AAAAAWWWWW!!!!!

Really,
at times like this

he is the best person
to be around.

I am quite grateful
To have him
In my life.

Cowpoke

by

Paul E Sexton

I know it’s
6am
so it doesn’t
surprise me,
when you dart
just in front
of me
in your
red car.
But come on!
The white cowboy hat?
I know it’s Texas
but must you
taunt me so?

With your long sleeve
button down
Lucas McCain
cowboy shirt.

Shit man!
It’s July
and even the
mornings
in Dallas
swelter.

But,
the really funny
thing
Is that
less than an exit
down the road
I swear I saw
a lone
coyote
standing defiantly
under a
bridge.

The Gods of Poetry

by

Paul E Sexton

The Gods of poetry
have lost their way.

Enthroned
pontiff,
in imaginary splendor.

Spent, and void of feeling.

We must endure them.
While sitting in straight backed chairs
at bookstores,
or art galleries.

Or worse yet,
on the internet.
Where narcissistic
Charlie Brown Grown-up
droning
seems even less human,
if that’s possible.

>From empty desperation
and lonely isolation
they abuse us
endlessly,
with their soulless words.

While we would rather
be looking at the sun
or our children’s faces.
Or writing Poetry
about the living.

Early Birds

by

Paul E Sexton

Early
at the mall,
before the stores open
they are there.

Walking around in circles.

The elderly.
Must be nearly a hundred.

Race walking.
Hanging out.
Drinking coffee.

The untrained eye
might feel pity for them.
Sad,
that their lives
have come to this.

But I see something
different.
A lifetime of battles
fought.
Some won,
some lost,
but all survived.

And now,
at last
they are not;
sitting in cubicles,
behind desks,
standing at assembly lines,
or behind counters.

They are free.

Somewhat resembling
seagulls,
lounging on a
warm wet beach
on a late
summer
morning.

New Life

by

Paul E Sexton

I wasn’t even alive
until the day
we met.

Only half-alive.
Living half truths.
Pretending,
waiting,
for something
to happen.

Then there
she was.
Standing under the sun.
In a crowd of people.

And there I was,
excited,
my destiny
about to be fulfilled.

Then a million
possibilities
opened up.
Ones I never
really expected.

Now,
I’m sitting here
on the couch
breathing deeply.
Listening
to her
in the other room
helping the baby to sleep.

Sometimes,
when we think
we are at the ending,
or even a middle,
it could actually be
just a moment
before a new beginning.

Waiting
to begin.

Greater Truth

by

Paul E Sexton

My almost
two year old son
and I
are walking through
a parking lot.
He points
excitedly at
a silver Honda Civic.

"Mommy car!"
"Mommy car!"
he insists,
with a huge smile on his face.

"No buddy"
I reply,
that’s not mommy’s car,"
only a car with
a similar make, model, and color."

He stares blankly
into my eyes
for several
long silent moments
without moving
until I,
unable to bear the silence
a moment longer,
say;
"Mommy’s car!"
"Mommy’s car!"
while pointing at
the doppleganger.

Resuming
his glowing smile,
gleeful disposition
having returned,
he trots ahead
mumbling
satisfied
victorious.

I suppose that
at various times
in our lives
we ALL
have greater truths
that we
are not yet ready
to comprehend

Bittersweet Poems

by

Paul E Sexton

It’s all
lost love
and bittersweet memories
and yesterdays
left behind.

They are haunted
by the faces
and words
of those
that they loved
that are
gone.

They talk
of nights,
silent
and still,
and an aloneness
that runs
deep.

When I read
the poets
I feel a little
sad,
but mostly
grateful.

My wife
may not be
perfect,
but she is;
reliable,
faithful,
sweet of disposition,
(usually)
pretty,
well organized,
bright,
creative,
and a very good kisser.

If she
were not
around,
I’d be
writing
lonely
bittersweet
poems
as well.

Rain Haiku

by

Paul E Sexton

Water from a roof
completely reconfigures
the soft earth below.

Time seems to stand still
around a dog in the rain,
until he moves on.

Cars in the distance
can be heard as they approach,
splashing on moist streets.

A tree all but dead
appears almost born again
when sky, opens wide

The Novelist

by

Paul E Sexton

Standing wrapped in a thin blanket
of white wet dirty snow, he stood
smoking a cigarette the way he usually did.
Out of the side of his mouth, with
hands, slightly unsteady, portraying
a man out of time anachronism
boyhood lost persona.
Once, after reading "A Tale of Two Cities,"
he declared an affinity for Sidney Carton, the
anti-hero who died a " far, far, better death"
for the sake of love. However, it was the
restless, smoking, late night wonderings
through dark empty Paris streets
for which he felt a familiar longing.
That’s how could be found on many a fitful
summer late night, pacing the smooth
wooden floors of our home. Always
with the cigarette, usually a glass
of whiskey, often spinning a crackly old vinyl
" Dream of The Blue Turtles," preferring,
" Moon Over Bourbon Street," slow and mournful,
even for Sting. He always seemed to be shaking
his head slightly, even when he wasn’t actually.
Not that he was sad really, simply resigned
to existing between the days.
So, as the engine whined out that whirring
followed by the clicking, it seemed entropy
and Ice had finally defeated our old Chevrolet.
He stood framed within the frosty whiteness
of the frozen windshield. A subtly imposing figure
in the long black overcoat, which seemed to
bring him a minor joy
in the few languid winter days that Texas let slip by.
Dropping the tiny cigarette remains
deliberately casually, warm
breath, smoke like in blue-gray air,
while gazing skyward he mumbled
"Fuck."
All that needed to be said, really,
on the silent journey back into the warmth.

Pissing Away Enlightenment

by

Paul E Sexton

I was reading the book
by the Theravadin Monk,
until hammerhead eyelids
had knocked me out.

You know sometimes
in that state of early dream,
when the same thoughts
seem obsessed upon semi-consciously
until sorted and solved.
To be passed along
to the conscious mind.
Well,
the topic for tonight’s dissertation
was enlightenment,
Nibbana, about to unfold.

So there was Dhamma
Spinning around and around
inside my head.

"The hindrance of worry is inhibited by

the Jhana factor Sukha or happiness."
"Compassion is the wish to remove the suffering

of others, It’s direct enemy is wickedness."
"The temperaments of people differ owing to

the diversity of their actions or Kamma,

habitual action tend to form particular temperaments."
"The Aspirant who is striving to gain one pointedness

of mind should endeavor to control unwholesome thoughts

at their very inception."
"Our pain and happiness are the direct results of our own good and evil."
"Nibbana is where the four elements of

cohesion, extension, heat, and motion, find no footing."
"Every conditioned thing is constantly becoming

and perpetually changing."
"Matter consists of forces and qualities in a constant state of flux."
"Death is not the complete annihilation of a being."
"Sense door consciousness turns the
consciousness toward the object."
"Dependent on ignorance arises conditioned activities."
"Dependent on conditioned activities arises
re-linking consciousness."
"Dependent on re-linking consciousness

arises mind and matter."

Then all at once I am awake.
Truly awake for the first time.
Lying in bed at 1:30 am,
having reached the other shore.
My racing mind begins to question;
How will this affect my life?
Should I wake up my wife to tell her?
Could this be just some side effect of
decongestants mixed with anti-depressants?
Is the world truly ready for another Arahant?

However,
standing over the toilet,
under the glaring blinding light,
engaged in conditioned thoughts,
it’s as if my enlightenment,
my entire Buddha nature
is pissed away into the night!

I rush back to bed
seeking desperately
to repeat the experience.

But this time,
I’m deep asleep until 6:30 am
when the crying baby
wakes me from a dream
in which I am at the office.
They are moving me to
a different cubical
in a different department, but
the halls are blocked by construction.
So, I am asked to walk around
the outside of the building
carrying my computer
and the box with all of my stuff.
It’s a very slow process
because it’s heavy,
and there are all these thorny bushes
all over the ground
and I’m not wearing any shoes,
or any pants.

Vacation

by

Paul E Sexton

The wind blows the clouds away
As April fades into May
Silent houses sleep
Locked in slumber deep
Waiting to be awaken
From the sound of the cars which have taken
Their owners on vacation.