SORRY!!!
But I have been busy writing some poetry:
Here are two that I wrote this week.
Does a poem exist before someone writes it?
Plucking the words, perfectly formed into rhyming tercets
from the tree of knowledge in a moment of blind inspiration.
Does the poem float above our heads
swimming in the abyss of our collective consciousness -
hoping, desperate to be chosen next?
Or maybe the poem is aloof.
Standing, arms crossed, leaning against a brick wall,
cigarette dangling from lips set in a definitive
non-smile.
Secretly wishing –
“pick me, pick me.”
Perhaps the poem waits for just the right moment to descend.
Waiting for you to see the green-eyed girl
or the tabby-cat, sleeping in the sun.
Does the poem know when it is born?
The day its finally able to share its
inspiration with the world.
"A couch death"
a dusty, pleather couch
beige, cracked with age
puffy, toasted marshmallow seats
rested, stoically
on the side of the road
waiting, patiently
for some passerby
to stop
and sit
and watch
the traffic or the stars
it was indifferent
lonely
sad
who would leave a couch to die
on the side of I-25?
I will blog about my last month in the next entry!
