time and distance
too little and too far;
my love has sailed
away…
an anchor never hoisted
and sails with no wind
while I wait on the rocks
eroding.

salt is cruel
swept in my wounds
where sun burns it in
like crust…

why wait?

the tide is rolling
but you my love are working
to remain
away.
time is on your side
not mine.

it’s roast on the roll
and no au jus.
I haven’t had my
dip in you.

the daily grind
that fills my cup,
isn’t quite
the pick me up.

every tedious
task or chore
passes on
with nothing more.

you didn’t leave
and nor did I,
but something’s gone-
I can’t deny.

there is no draw
without a laugh;
the fun has left
the other half.

it fizzled like
an opened pop;
without some Sun
the flower flops.

it’s kinda sad
but what to do?
my roast was meant
to have au jus.

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.

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.

a million little things
make me smile;
like star light that glitters
in my eyes
when it touches me again.
memories and stars,
the brilliance
of left-over light.

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...

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!

Comet Vernon never stays.
the specialty is a fly by
in the dark of night;
zooming long away
then drifting close,
kissing your stratosphere-
just not enough
to melt it’s core.
~~the razzle dazzle show~~
would end for us all
if Vernon was ruled
by gravity
<--more than velocity.-->
cover your eyes
if comets aren’t your thing.
best not burn yourself
by it's luster.

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.

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.

sometimes silence is the verse;
a cave of visions
where still, the air surrenders
to water and time
seeping through rock
as cuts that carve my heart.

a stream flowing inward,
each drop knew sun but now
reflect the bit of light it meets
and carries life below.
in cold and dark this fortress
makes rest for weary mind.

I wasn’t always thus
but you would never know.
a soul is built
from life eroded.
come, guest of mine~
walk through what I have made.

Everest

with mischievous smile
and painted skin,
if ever man should fly
it would be him.
the world a ground
for wanderlust
(no place could
keep him in)
has bid goodbye
while up he climbs
on quest
to clear his mind.
Africa, Andromeda
mountain peak to star;
no limits of time
or place too far.
‘ere he leaves
this Earth, before we all,
one rock
will surely call.
atop its peak
he’ll stop to rest
Everest, Sam,
ever rest.

beauty from openness,
vulnerable and soft
finds a way to surface
only after pride is lost.
but pride is hard to break
behind a stony wall
to keep the ego safe,
my heart from shrinking, small.
much as heart desires
to flaunt about the sleeve
fear can keep it hidden
if I think you will leave.
what is the precious stone
that weighs me down this way?
pulling in my chest,
not diamond, but jade.
pride is a game
one can play alone.
release takes two
but cuts to the *bone.

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.

I had a line but she left
when my pen insulted paper.
The alabaster canvas
wanting nothing of my stains,
sent the line away by screaming.
I lost her
in my pain.

The line flew to the wood
like a fairy sparkling green
and now is lost to wonder
dropping silver magic
round the blooms
on the leaves;
her hiding trick.

If you wander in the wood
keep an eye for me.
When you catch her
please be true.
The line I lost to wonder
belongs to me,
not you!

I’ve been
woken
by a smile,
a touch,
a laugh;
an interlude
that lifts my mood.
And after a while
I’m aware
of the sea,
the sun
warm on me,
the waves
breaking hard
round my tiny isle
in the midst
of life.
My boat may rock
in the ocean sway
and the salt
can sting my skin;
but an island-
my secret rest-
waits in my dreams
just close enough
to see
when I close my eyes.
A little journey
I someday make
when bid back
by a smile
I desire.