I stand still,
a statue with blinking eyes,
unable to camouflage myself
against the pursuit of time.
less than still
hydraulic
A TREE DREAMS OF BRANCHES
One broken limb
splintered and
disconnected from its roots
frozen in time
a tree locked in its icy reverie
dreams of branches
becoming whole once more
veins growing outward
with the hope of leaves
only cracks in reality
Springs slow thaw
A tree dreams of branches
WHISSSPERS
You whisssper in my ear
your palpable smile
some mystery
or a secret that only I am privileged to know,
some master plan,
some wisdom or
some knowledge
or just “I love you.”
The warmth of your breath
softly radiates
entering by hearing
and “hearing by the word of god.”
Familiar as a breeze
rustling the leaves
on a humid Summer’s day
under the shade tree.
These whissspering waves
ripple through my body
steadily quickening
the beat of my heart.
My pulse registers . . . . .
excitement, a cherished connection
words and meaning lost in anticipation
virtue swirls into sweet sin
tingle of unending hope
inspiring passions aplenty
I dream of grabbing you and
holding you closer
than my own skin.
whissspers
ice reeds
among the rushes
two more poems featuring the half-deflated balloon from the workplace office.
______________________________
I AM WAITING
I am waiting.
Waiting for the light to flicker.
Waiting for the walls to drop.
Waiting for the half-deflated ballon to fall
Waiting for the stale office air to circulate
Waiting for microscopic dust to settle
I’m waiting for your call.
——————————————-
A half-deflated balloon
from a celebration
long past
drifts listlessly
bobbing and weaving
in the recirculated
air current
Still tethered to
its cubicle
human placeholder
the open cage
where “pets” can roam freely.
that damn balloon
practical warning
Feels sooooo good!
First warm day of Spring
Steps lightly
======================
Shining Bright
Birds sing in mid-flight
Spring sunshine
======================
Looking clearly
A glass wall separates me
from Spring outside
3 haiku on spring
true colors under the skin
Daily progress
with pain in every step
These “golden years”
+++++++++++++++++++
Unable to sit
Unease prevents stillness
My restless legs
+++++++++++++++++++
Time goes faster
Losing track of days
One more bare limb
+++++++++++++++++++
Once, clarity
of a happy, sad youth –
memory fades
4 haiku on aging
All Aboard
Where Bowlers Come Together
Spring Morning Rain
The beat of the
windshield wipers begins
and holds steady
as the dark clouds
of the worlds concert hall
slowly open
to the rhythm of the rain.
Passing headlights
provide the light show
joined with
the whoosh and hum,
a tire chorus
on wet pavement.
Spring’s early morning
experimental symphony.
spring morning rain
winter tree
I cannot say I’m a great poet.
I’m not even sure I can say
I’m a good poet.
But, I do like words
their power to
evoke and invoke
feelings and emotions
pictures and memories.
And so I struggle
ever so humbly to
express my self into being.
why i write poetry
tree along the lane
kluster
A half-deflated balloon
decorated with
colorful stars and
“You’re So Special”
tethered to its cubicle
now
bobbing and weaving
now
drifting listlessly in
currents of stale
recirculated air
its metallic surface
reflecting the
bright
white light of
office fluorescents
office balloon
snowfall
trees in the snow
Story Of Our Lives #127
holes
“I DON’T MAKE MISTAKES”
“I don’t make mistakes!”
Hmmmmph!
arrogant, ballsy fraud.
Elitist, cock-sure punk.
The claim
itself a mistake
waiting to humble
the utterer of lies.
Pop the balloon
of ego
(or is it id?).
Beat the
empty piñata
there’s no sweetness within.
Drink the curdled milk
soured by
time in the slow
heat of ignorance.
Remove the clothes
made dirty by
the ejaculation of foolishness.
Wash clean
the soiled
soul.
Rinse the body and
dress it in the clean
fresh clothing of
righteous humility.
Walk out into
the quiet morning of
birdsong
welcoming you
to a new life
where others sing
your praises,
as you practice
patience
for the mistakes
of others,
when they look
fearfully to your
criticism
only to find
the warmth
of the sun,
blue skies of kindness
green grass of compassion
in the welcoming embrace
of
forgiveness and understanding.
“I don’t make mistakes”
a winters day
I WAS BORN
I was born in 1960. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I will turn 60 in 2020.
I turned 20 in 1980. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I will turn 80 in 2040.
I turned 40 in the year 2000. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
All of my present has been
neurotically ricocheting
back and forth between
my past and my future.
I turned 40 in the year 2000.
When I turn 00
I will return to
what I was
before I was born
At peace.
At home.
In total oneness with
existence and nonexistence.
I was born….
snow on the fence
The hand lies
limply on the page
Pen flip-flopping flaccidly
insipid, impotent inspiration
Desire, a
vacuous turncoat
betrays me
What to write.
What to write?
What To Write!
nothing.
the writing blahs
over the river and through the woods
... on being and becoming ... 