Poetry

08/30/2013 #1

A cutting moon slowly sweeps
its waning blade across the darkening
sky, harvesting the invisible
stalks that bind the heavenly fruit
to its deep, earthy root, a sickle
to sever the reigns that tame the sweaty
sun, freeing it from its long and
heavy summer labor.

08/09/2013 #4

Gravel and dirt sing a slow, steady beat.
Shadows dance down the leaf-crowded lane.
On my left, dog tags clink, their ringing
my only link to regular life.

The leashes are loose, yet their gravity
is all that binds me to the ground.
Storms of fine dust lift my brown feet
beyond the towering clouds.

Inside my head, music moves and sounds swirl.
Words weave their way into lines of rhyme.
I prune the prose to fashion poems, neat haiku
of strict five-seven-five.

A shock of pain pulls me back to the path:
another blister forming underfoot. I smile
silently, thinking that soon my feet will have
no more flesh left to lose.

Like my best writing, my days have
set structure, a pattern reflecting poetry.
Miles are my meter, five-seven-five:
the week's start, week days, and week's end.

My feet pay the price for this wandering life,
shoes and skin worn thin with walking.
But the dogs and I need exercise,
my brain frames as a loose excuse.

08/07/2013

Green brambles bake in
the white August sun; berries
boil along the vines.

Nettles, thorns threaten
all passers-by but cannot
disguise their sweet prize.

I defy the sharp warnings,
red blood on my hands,
black juice on my tongue.