Poetry

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.

12/12/2007 #2

A slow-tongued poet appears
To have taken his seat
Inside my head.

Before he lets it slip
Between my lips or
Into my pen,

He turns and tastes each word,
Chews and ruminates
Each syllable.

Simple sentences from another's
Conversation pause, drawn
To long round sounds,

Stretched like fresh gum,
Nearly senseless in their
Wet, sticky forms.

He cares not that I am left
To sort the rotten from
The well-flavored ones,

Each sound broken down,
Edges bent and blending
With its kin.