Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others, are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.

I watch life float by
like a dragonfly
riding the breeze.
I need to seize the
current like a
brick of gold,
soar ever upward,
above the swamps,
and dead lilies.
Transcendent light blinds
temporarily, but it's
necessary for new sight,
and stronger wings.

Baby, don't worry
about my sore
Not to worry, darling
Just love me some more!

You no need to fix my broken heart
Just try to feel my pain in your heart
Oh, baby, I'm coming to you
Please, don't close your door!

I'm not asking for the moon
I'm not looking for the rain
Darling, just look at my eyes
and make me smile again!

Stop walking away from me
and listen to me, oh babe!
Lemme see your face one more last time
if you don't love me anymore!

Life’s a very busy thing
And rushes by so fast,
And since inertia rules this world
It cannot help but last.  

Transactions plonk the daylight hours,
And revels blot the dark.
There is a grimy window near
That looks on a glum park.

Words can wriggle through the cracks
Where grosser largeness blocks,
And even with no aperture
Huskless speech can seep through locks.