Colin F. Jones

ANGER

He might well be a hawk with a Dove’s soft feathers,
Though feathered thus might not seek to deceive,
Some to a part misunderstood are tethered,
That due to their own cruel acts they tend to grieve.
Tis from discovery of our defects we grow wiser,
For we have all found black holes in our sky,
That with this understanding to advise us,
We know the truth without us asking why.
What triggers rage might well yet trigger love,
That which is lacking where the rage was fired,
That soon that hawk is plumed as is the Dove,
For peace of mind and peace is more desired.
‘Tis gentle hands and words that change our thoughts,
That self respect and love are our escorts.