The Dance

Across wooden symphonies

sliding in patient grace

feet barely touching keys

of souls

as they draw unseen lines and

stanzas with

the breathe of a shadow;

the dancer.

Prayer to Aoidē, Meletē and Mnēmē

I want to write every day

to feel words drip from my mind

and traverse through the veins in my arms

to meet the tips of fingers waiting

to press them into electronic awareness with

fevorish pitch and precision.

I want to write

and feel the images of lives

rise up out of the grey clay of mental

earth to breathe in the air of my breathe

and walk amongst the trees of worlds

I will never actually see.

I want to write

I want to sense the world shift

with the newness of imagination

under the shade and shadow cast

by new suns and new stars

set to fall for wishes

I never thought a

word would whisper.

 

Rest here

When your road leads too long into the distance

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.

Do not let weary doubt o’er take you

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

and tomorrow set out

together.

Each one

Each one a slightly different shade

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.

Lead Balloon

There . it  . sat

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  inconvincible

of my genius.

Every detail painstakingly thought

every solution and method

from wood to corrugated 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 un-obliging,

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. 🙂  }}

Writer’s Block

My mind;

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.

Summer storm

first .

.  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.