Turn on the moon
and I will dance for you.

Inspiration spirals away,
as the clock drones on.

If only the flickering
fluorescent light,
would ignite,
        something
                  anything
tangible.

Oh to feel fire,
caressing the soul.
Like the child,
who on a dare,
took to the clouds.
Then scrapped the skin
off his shin but won the glory.

Even captured with pen,
the fire wanes.
Smothered by the clock,
Never satisfied.

I can no longer be a poet,
For I feel no anguish deep in my soul.
There is no two timing lover,
Nor bruises marring my heart.

And there is nothing here to startle you,
I offer no sting to make you feel alive.
There is no vicarious pleasure to be had in these words.

I cannot lament missing voicemails,
Or rage against machinations,
There is no more fodder for my word press.


Now I only sigh over ***** dishes,
Or anticipate primetime television.
My heart flutters for clean sheets.

So I cannot help you cry,
Because I fell in love
And so I must retire.

The birds are all talking about me,

But in Greek.

In the middle of two sloping hills,
There sits a weathered barn.
It’s almost as old as the trees,
The trees it’s hiding behind.

On the side,
There is a note scrawled.
In crackling yellow paint
It reads

“Shelter Valley”