Hooked up to a terminal, positively charged,
my life's a carbon battery pack carried
slung across my back.

Sometimes I plug into the mains
try to melt or cook my brains,
it drains me though.

.Once or twice I thought it would be nice
to connect up to a lemon, they say
there's power to be found in fruits
personally I purse my lips at that
pearl of wisdom, I'd
sooner go on the national grid.

Now and then when I'm at one hundred percent
fully charged and waiting to be spent
I sit in idle contemplation
like a train that lit upon an unlit station
wondering what comes next.

I wonder
how our great creator
built a vessel
strong enough
to contain my soul?

Each day my spirit fights
against my skin with violent
jolts as a young bird
seeking exit from a cage.

Unfettered psyche
free from me
bounces among clouds
rolls through deserts,
climbs volcanic ridges
migrates with birds in flight.

Curious instincts guide
my vital force inside and out
like honey bees
scour zinnias in full bloom.

Dare I release my spirit today?

She feels no confusion
with her lips against his eye.
Eyes blue as a
deep mountain lake.
She senses comfort
resting across her
chest, like the first time
her cheek touched his
bicep when they walked
enmeshed.
Now feels so warm,
soft on her mind
for fear has
fallen to the trail.
Renewal of trust
reborn fills her heart.

on poetry*

A poem is only a mouthful of air
until it is read.
Imagine it. Craft it carefully
from your heart's flesh.
Seal it in a bottle
of clear, pure words.
Set it adrift on
the ocean of time,
life's restless surge,
until a few congruous spirits
pluck it from the sea-wrack
and recognize a message
that illuminates their souls.
Readers find writers;
never the opposite.