A Play of words, poetry in motion
Forgotten corners hideaways like the forgotten corners of a keyboard, the feeling of the keys the fingers now flying click click spacebar click like time ticking these words away silently almost silent almost not there at all these words these poems always in the night always alone with the day so what to say this … Read more…
My guitar waits patiently high strung and vocal, but patient. I should write a guitar poem for her. She has a nice figure and a sweet voice. Yes I should write for this guitar for she has helped me make it through the night. I touch her gently, she responds. I sing songs with her.
American TV Poem Oh another body. Look at the blood. Good job on smashing the skull. They’ll have to cut this one up. They’ll get the team together, everybody will reveal something. We’ll get this mystery solved before the last commercial just like the last time and the last show. Which one is this? … Read more…
Stepping Stones Poem These poems are stepping stones slick with wet moss in the stream. You may cross the stream on these stones and avoid the swirling water but be careful with your step. You can slip and fall, fall in the cold water, go down stream to where we never intended, to the valley … Read more…
My cat wants my time not my money. My hand is her baby her master her lover and her mother. She has to have my touch. She must feel that we are lying around together my cat and I. My cat and I we touch and she drapes her leg over my hand and her … Read more…
These fingers these fat fingers move over the keyboard again fast now as I have learned to go fast on this thing and slow in life. Slow down and breathe. You don’t need to multitask your way to hell on earth. Have we gone too far to turn back back to the pasture, back to … Read more…
Drag Me Poem You drag me to this box again as if there is water in this well I look at my hands my palms I remember the color of the young Elvis in the video tonight, like a Monet painting he sang for me from the past. Is this the past and you are … Read more…
Cow Poem I used to feed the cows. I can still remember the smell of the molasses in the feed and the way the feed was warm sometimes and the way the cows were always there for it. Rounding the cows up in the field is memory itself. What is your call to get a … Read more…
My hands may not have enough to say. My tiny flowers may not bloom. My touch on these keys may mean only that the day has fallen fallen fallen into the evening sky, as if sublime, another day in a sea of days in a sea of moments like tiny flowers in a giant field … Read more…
My brother sends poems from heaven. He tells me to write about the dead rabbit on the road and how I moved him slowly into the ditch, how he came to rest beside the first daffodil of spring.