my dad would say,
I was found under a rock.
worse things have happened.
there's life down there
we forget to see,
important work
to us all.
so maybe I count all the more
because of my
*****
creepy
crawly
grunge-eating
tiny
wet
ugly
crowded
fight­-for-survival
origin.
I'd say
I came to life
prepared.

The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.

If every morning that began with words in mind prompted a new poem, then I'd be a constant poet.  Like this morning, would have been a bit about gerunds and how you just shouldn't gerundize some nouns because it isn't right.  And then some are right but not because the connotation of the word or context remains the same.  Take pan and paning, for example.  One is breakfast and the other in film.  But anyway, if I'm allowed to not make sense often then perhaps I am a constant poet.  I asked the question, "Why is the expression take a ****?  Taking isn't what we do..." Perhaps the language affords us  many luxuries of interpretation that forgive literal correctness and rules.  Like writing a paragraph of prose for Hello Poetry.  But maybe we are here because we question the limits and take the license and more.  The words become a playground, not a chore.  Yes that's it!  My morning meandering leads to a single poetic thought.

The words are a playground,
no bell to call me in.
And wander I must
past fences, over grasses verdant
finding trees that take words
and split them like branches.
I eat the apples
leaving some of me behind along the way.
I am a constant poet.

a wild heart can’t be broken,
a tame heart keeps the beat,
a heart like yours is spoken
within the sensual heat.
it’s sensitive and open
but careful and neat;
love in the smallest tokens,
the gestures we repeat.
so take the love that’s woken
into your soul so sweet-
a melody unbroken-
and make your mind’s retreat.

(a metaphor...)

Turning times on who I had to be
singed and fragile
rigid as a leaf
wont to tumble
in the wind;
make a fist
see her crumble,
death of Spring
scattered on the ground.

Winter comes
to soothe the scorching,
freezing scars
til finally
the hottest Summer ever
is remembered not felt.
But a tree like me
abides the changing season
emerges thriving.

Can the poet make you dance?
She could put you in a trance
with pretty words
like pirouette or waltz.
If you should start to shiver
when toes and fingers quiver
most assuredly it isn't
all her fault.
Just like music from a player
the rhythm starts to layer
but not unless you
choose to turn it loud.
And then we see you choke,
you poem-loving bloke.
Just being here we've
found your fancy out!

that night I read your note
your words
your song
and knew it was the butterfly
still chasing the raven;
who, with her heart caught in his mouth
sees the ground and fears the fall
from his lonely perch;
so drops the heart she gave to him
and doesn't even see it
fallen;
there's her body
but out of reach, this heart
cannot be joined with her again
and ravens always crush what they catch.
the heart is his forever...
there under stars
and in our eyes,
you held me close and
kissed my eyes,
"I'm ready."
without demand I hoped;
loving my raven free,
remembering
raven drops these hearts
when they taste of fear.
but he forgets
and takes hers, new again
and this could go forever...

Sunrise wakes me slowly,
moonlight lets me rest.
In between, the light of day
leaves nothing to confess.
If through the fading sunset
my heart sings sweet and loud
by sobriety of daylight
my mind can stop the sound.
What can come of dreaming
where joy will always win?
My life should be a day dream then
and love should never end.

we meet by morning
you and I,
when our soft glow
doth light the sky;
when lovers wake
beneath the stars
we hide by day,
and guard with Mars.
we never meet
but always kiss
while our love hangs
in Heaven's bliss;
jealous of
the world below
where lovers' touch
they nightly know.
play on, the fools
of love, play on!
and don't forget who
*paints romantic dawn.

this space between, no match
for tender thoughts.
my heart can find you
in the dark.
you have me.

I know not when love began;
once alive,
love hath no beginning.
and past my quiet lips
the music in my soul
bares dreams of certain joy,
made sweeter still
as memories of silence fade away.
were we ever not this way?

the mind can know a spot in time,
or reason,
but to the spirit
*true love hath no season.

I could write you in
between the lines,
slipping in nuance
like a kiss in the sheets;
but would you stay?
I wish to keep you in
the way you’ve gotten
neath my skin.
Hold me close
and whisper,
“take my body
feed my soul.”
A script we two
compose-
make the love
and write the prose.

like a melody he moves
the rhythm of his mood
reflecting clouds;
grey turns to silver
shone on his head,
and a smile
so soft across his face
brings my mind
and longing to his space.
the dance of a rag in hand
smooth like jazz
caressing every surface.
nothing is neglected
by long legato strokes
along a smooth, pale canvas
cleared for his next composition
to do it all again.
I am jealous of his kitchen.

like sugar on berries when I look at you
my heart gets soft and juicy
and I wonder what to do.
the sparkle in my eyes like frost on a pop
freezing my gaze on yours
and I don’t want to stop.
but berries and sugar are just a flavor
and what if you prefer
a bite with a little more savor?
I cannot tell what’s in your heart
or if you think I’m sweet
but I may fall apart.
this is either berry good or not at all
every berry crushing
under my fall.