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.

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.

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.

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.

The kingfisher darts
through leafy branches
and between trees,
ringing and bustling
as it gently lands
from one bough
to the next.

I feel the breeze
upon my shoulders,
I smell the cattails
and water lilies,
I see the light of morning
reflecting off the surface
in dazzling ripples.  

This river runs
from Au Train Lake
to Lake Superior,
flowing with
such purity,
allowing nothing
but tranquility of spirit.

Rain was falling this morning
on my way into work
harder than it typically does
in the morning.

My office was darker
than it typically is
on a cloudy day
like today.

The rain and darkness
are pairing well with
the interviewees in my ears
as I vacantly stare at the computer

entering letters onto the dull white page.
They discuss their respective crafts
while the fan-girl interviewers
go gaga for their answers.

It's usually days like today
that would make someone
slump into a depression -
eyes glazed over, aimlessly working -

but there's something quite beautiful
in the colorless sky today,
something almost musical
in the falling rain.

Your words
aren't like other words.
You don't settle for
meager first drafts
or gritty grammar. No,
your words are
purified with fire,
refined like silver.

Teach me your ways
Great Poet,
Your strong metaphors
and precise language,
discipline me in
intentionality.