Do you ever wonder
if the painter
tires of his colors?

Walking home
at twilight:

the gentle breeze

the lavender sky

the wave goodbye
before the sun
closes its eyes

and the lingering disquiet
of knowing
you're all alone
for the next several blocks

today the coffee turned cold before
my lips could touch the rim of the mug.

today the flowers in my garden withered before
i could watch the petals gently growing.

today the world feels less comfortable and
more lonely than ever before.

maybe tomorrow will be different but
yesterday i said that too.

© fey (15/03/21)

By Steven L Herring

If I were a poet,
I'd be damaged goods
and all the world would whisper
as I sought beauty in the woods

If I were a poet,
a peculiar one I'd be
Robust in every single way
morning, noon, and end of day
all I am is me

If I were a poet,
an oddity in fact,
I'd start my days with gasoline
and the brightness of a match

If I were a poet,
I'd bleed on every page
Silence,
sadness,
laughter,
love;
crescendoing in rage

I am a poet!
A wordsmith if you will
But even if you won't,
a poet I am still!

Poetry is dumb.

too sad to write