her lips fragile like
watermelon
when
he broke her trust.
you can do
whatever you want,
he says off camera,
touch them.
grab them.
whatever.
sometimes,
he gruffs,
I can’t resist.
sometimes
I just can't stop
kissing.
to him she was nothing but
an edible arrangement.
Mar 14, 2019
Mar 14, 2019 at 2:43 PM UTC
is a child running
into a busy street.
Only inattentive
and
lazy parents
let inspiration die.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
My thoughts of you
are like hundreds of seagulls
on two sides of a bridge,
some perched on small
islands of ice, others
floating on frigid water.
Or maybe they are
like roses in the wintertime -
budding but not blooming,
waiting for some warmth,
or like the once fragrant petals
now fallen to the ground.
Dec 13, 2018
Dec 13, 2018 at 10:54 AM UTC
Christ and the Poet
declare the same cry,
“to those who have
eyes to see,
let them see.
To those who have
ears to hear,
let them hear.”
Mar 11, 2018
Mar 11, 2018 at 9:38 PM UTC
Depressed are my poets
because they lack the marketable skills
of my singer-songwriter friends
who, though they are still poets, at least
can play in a band or be staff writer
at some boring record label.
You know the place, where
good art goes to die.
It’s stripped and beaten,
forced into some man’s pocket book,
which consequently gets shoved
into the pocket of his sports coat.
But even the poet doesn’t get
such awful treatment. No, the poet
puts out a few lines to be read by who?
No one. That’s who. Just a few other
lonely writers on a forum - that’s who’s
interested in poetry these days.
Feb 27, 2018
Feb 27, 2018 at 10:53 PM UTC
Fog, like the sigh on a tired man’s pillow,
rests upon a snow covered field.
Golden grass, aging and dormant,
stands like broken glass
on the snowy walls of
deep roadside ditches.
Ten brown mourning doves
perch upon black power lines.
Juxtaposed against a gray sky, it seems
carefully composed, like a painting.
It is so unfathomably beautiful.
Awakening to wonder is like this.
Jan 12, 2018
Jan 12, 2018 at 10:29 AM UTC
I watch my little sprout
push through the tender soil
reaching for light,
asking for water.
A tiny blade
soon becomes a little bulb
with tiny seeds
bursting forth.
A little grain,
enough to feed a bird
or a small rodent,
but it is enough.
It is enough because
it is all it needs
to be.
Nothing more or less.
Jan 7, 2018
Jan 7, 2018 at 10:08 PM UTC
I’m a poet whose imagination’s died,
a galaxy whose sun’s ceased to shine.
Pray for me, for I am lost.
The builder didn’t count the cost.
Laid in a tomb behind a stone,
swallowed by a fish in the deep unknown,
I’m waiting for my day to come
when you make me speak
like you healed the dumb.
Call my name and there I’ll come.
Loose me and I’ll freely run.
I’m just waiting for your hand
to pull me on the sea again.
There I’ll see you in the light,
the water’s calmed and the moon is bright.
Little, yes, my faith may be,
but I’ll try again, just wait and see.
Nov 17, 2017
Nov 17, 2017 at 10:18 PM UTC
Silent cardinal perched
on a cold November branch,
you are watching me.
Silent sloth wrapped on
an encased and snowy tree,
remind me to rest.
Silent succulent
planted quietly in dirt,
remind me to feed.
Silent apple on
the adjacent journal page
remind me to eat.
Silent cardinal perched
on a cold November branch,
sing my numbered days.
Nov 1, 2017
Nov 1, 2017 at 3:12 PM UTC
There seems to be
more poetry
written in the winter.
Poets have
better things to do
in the summer.
We like the warm evenings,
drinking beer, smoking cigars,
talking about poetic things,
thus summers do not lend
themselves well to writing,
so we save it all for winter and fall.
Consequently, our writings
tend to be more melancholy,
more depressed in nature,
*O my mistress
how I long for your touch,*
he scribbles on his pad,
*let me feel thy supple *******
and hold thee tenderely
in my loving arms.
Let me hear thy whisper
taste thy gentle lips, and sense
the warmth of thy smile.*
See, the cold weather poets
tend to be the weakest of poets.
Poetry takes discipline.
The poet must learn
to sit in his dark, dusty corner
even on the best gardening days,
even when the birds are chirping
and the sun is out,
even when the breeze is perfect
because the poet must learn
to write for himself,
not only for his winter readership.
He must take his pen into the fields,
must count the snapdragons
and wild daisies.
Like mother, he must learn
the simple act of trusting inspiration,
not as a ***** but as a lover
who in return for faithfulness gives,
in return for kindness smiles,
and in return for loyalty loves.
Sep 29, 2017
Sep 29, 2017 at 11:38 PM UTC