when the sun sets and shadows take the path

when stars hide, and moon dives behind clouds of

storms, anticipating

Rest here, by my hearth

by the flames of kith and kin -ship

and do not let weary doubt o’er take you

for in this moment we will rejoice in how far you have come

and tomorrow we set out

together.

lays out side by side

neither aware nor hindred in their purpose

to be trampled beneath hoof and shoe

wheel and spoke

nor tread and sole,

but serve out their days in the company

of earth, weed and vermin

a testiment to direction

and leading others to purposes

they can not be privy to.

Cobblestones.

unyielding, unswerving in

its definance against the air;

my balloon.

I painted it red

I, gathered up its edges where

the rope gingerly hangs on

I, blew, I threw, I even kicked

it a few times…

but still

it goes nowhere;

my balloon.

The people passing by are

starting to stare.

The boy on the see saw

the girl on the swing

even the mothers who usually

say nothing to me

are now intensely investigating

me;

my balloon.

I thought it’d be grand,

a design

to prevent storms from taking it

winds from breaking it

birds from popping it,

to make the world

see differently,

to convince the unconvinceable

of my genius.

Every detail painstakingly thought

every solution and method

from wood to corregated box

but lead just seemed the most

malleable and freeing.

Ancients used it in curses and

blessings, why even now it

protects from all kinds of il- ‘adiations

our scientific curiosities run us into,

so why not from other

‘nations of curiosities albeit

feathered and tempestuous in origin?

But, alas, here it sits, unwilling and unobliging,

unwavering obtuse in its weightless

determination to not float, this

dripping in red acrylic and cotton;

my balloon.

{{Thank you to sonofwalt at dadpoet.wordpress.com/ .  I think I am going to do a few more of these Cliche’ poems.  }}

over the river; a branch

a home of green stars

dangling dancing daringly

in subtle Sagittarian breezes.

I drift off to dreams

at its feet.

Be who you are: encouraging, uplifting, and brave.

Be who you are: proud, confident, and exactly who you should be.

Be who you are:

love you.

an aquarium of  [ word and phrase ]

behind thick glass and soft lights.

swimming gracefully

darting chaotically

dipping and dive-

ing

curving and careen-

ing

by

smiling.

Childlike, I place my hand

upon the barrier between us

lean in and trace the trail of syllable,

metaphor and meter across coral structured

templates and free versed sea weed,

growing out of rocks of jubilee and jumbled

alliteration, allusion, and hyberbole

unable to chorale them.

Thus, for the moment.  I am inclined

to simply breathe them in

and enjoy the finest array of

etymological specimens dancing before

me;

writer’s block.

.  drop . . then

.  a .  nother . . as

. . cloud . s  gather upon . .  the hori . . zon

SSSHHHZZZAATT {{ rooooollllinnng }} BAMBOOOOM!

. . . and . . . the . . . .  drops

. . . .     . . .   . .   . . . .   . . . kurSLPAT and . . .

. . . . KURplop . . . in . . .

………  ……   …. …… SSSHHHZZZAATT {{ rooooollllinnng }} BAMBOOOOMBOoom!

…. /we take shelter\ …..

awesome summer storm.

my foot intrepidly tipped and toed out over

a dusted edge;  worn with the

age of ancient travelers and

standing guard for others to tread.

In the landscape reaching out beyond

mist and grey mottled sage sea billows up

in defiance, thumbing its leaf and tendril at

cemented steel monsters; consequently

beckoning me to remain – safe and

boring.

No!

The clarivoant sky plays stories of

could be and should be while

megalithic microscopic slither stomp and stray in

a game of tag with memoried moments marred and maligned

with vivacious joy and undetermined sadness

as hummingbird flight trips towards tantilizing

heavens teasing raven black shadows to chase;

my imagination uncaged:

IOh, here, where the edge drops off

stone turns and humble rock

gather to host a trail of events

leading to a brilliantly begged beginning and seeking an

reverently ridiculous end

in a story to spin for another

generation.

Lingering, for many a day

I ‘ve sought council on character crossing countenance’s

countenance to decifer

what words to hire, inspire and toss

and tarry across the threshold of vision

to world I cannot see

but holding on to with hopes blade and

verses torch, in this new land of

unbridled horse runners, dog sleepers, and

birds speaking french;

for a story unfolding and

remembered.

Out here, where the sidewalk ends,

my every word universe of every

needed fabled verse awaits my

next move.

how can I effectively write a poem for non-poem lovers

in such a way as to find themselves in love with words again.

Maybe I could drizzle cheese over words as if they were broccoli and get people to try them…

or maybe tantelize them with fun macaroni shaped words smothered in alfredo sauce…

or even create a word bar where every drink was a new delicious word…

then…  only after the words touched their lips and succumbing to the word’s flavor would they realize…

hey – I just devoured a poem.

{{taken from a comment I posted on dadpoet.wordpress.com/  about poetry and how it is gaining life and momentum in the United States.  Please, go check out his words. }}