"moiling" poems
Drawing images in my head
That stub my pinky toe
In a race that will never end
Nor will I ever win
Thoughts are constantly passing by
I can barely keep up
But on rare occasions I do
It’s quite difficult though
I often need to medicate
Just to get my head straight
It’s moiling to complete a thought
And develop a plot
They slip my mind in a short time
Like having one’s a crime
When I expound an idea
I’m in a zone alone
And there’s nothing that distracts me
When they slip my fingers
As though my pen is like popcorn
My brain brews a storm
And I feel I’m the one to scorn
Needless to say, my thoughts
Are bipolar like north and south
And slip through crevices
But the thing that matters the most
My sanity stays sane
And my thoughts never become vein.
Feb 11, 2013
Feb 11, 2013 at 4:20 PM UTC
The wimpled scrolls recede....
The Authors of the braille sands
leave Northern marrow in their wording,
as sharp as Marram grasses bent
in keening subjugation....
Illuminated Sanskrit kelp,
infused with lust of fallen auras,
scrims the weed-green gartered breaks
now shaken from the glaucous mane,
while fleets of stippled cumuli,
( rain-chartered galleons of the West)
in line astern, prepare for war
beyond the deepened brim.
We,- the town-worn Pages- flutter,
drawn to trace the moiling hem,
to pour away into the water....
Salt-preened minions of the wind.
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 12:10 AM UTC