Morning falls
from a budding
   cherry tree;

   the colour
of nightsong’s
waning blossom
   comes to be
       an echo
   only heard
   by the wind

Soundless remnants
   of an intimate
twilight odyssey
   tarry thickly,
drifting lightly
through the landscape
      of dawn

   The hushed echo
   wields the silent
         reverie
      of the night,
   gently rippling
   the rivers that run
   through the heart

The poignant taste
of passionfruit lingers
in the sensory traces
      of a warm
   passing breeze;

      penetrating
   the lonely chill
   of a naked night's
      work of art

                ~


           Jesse

Just give me
A twelve pack
Olde English
A carton of cigarettes
A working lighter
And 3G data connection
A big bottle of febreeze
Ramen noodles and water
One roll of Scott's tissue
I could be a recluse
And probably write a poem
That made sense.
Maybe I'd run off with
The mouse
Never to be heard from
Again.

It’s the horror of all horrors
It’s the worst of the worst
And you know that once you catch it
You are really truly cursed

To be under subjugation
Under horrible control
And it’s not planning to give back
Anything it stole

It stole your creativity,
All your rights, your name
And I’m just sick of playing
It’s sick twisted game

I looked up at my sister
She smiled and shook her head
And said it’s writers block my friend
**** it up until the end

Another Nor'easter
dims the sky
while it makes its plans
to howl all night
getting rough with spring
under white drifting blankets
crushing her crocuses
benching her robins
yet again