She looks nowhere else, steps daintily home.

Above, only one fruit remains,

A brutal burden on a branch that strains.

Overripe, decayed,

Skin split and leaking -

Putrescent -

Do you know of that which I’m speaking?

The soft brown curls whereupon I sit

Are lifted by a gust.

If there is a moment, this is it,

When swiftly to prayer I must.

Oh, sweet lady, pull me low -

Let me shade thine eyes!

There are things one should not know -

Don’t look toward the skies!

Her letter crumpled, torn apart
My reply as yet unwritten
The bitter snake coiled in my heart
Is it her or me who’s bitten?

It is a scab I must pick at, old agony
A dedicated friend who reminds me just to breathe
Two forlorn and weather worn gargoyles still stare across
A courtyard full of dying dreams now washed by rains of loss

Her letter torn and stained with tears
This is all that I have written
The years have multiplied my fears
I know now who was bitten

There is a rippling mirror
Shattered by the wind
Deflecting diving stars above
From the empty deeps within

There is a sleeping idol
Tarnished bronze on silver sand
Who dreams the blanket waves away
To stand in the sun again

I’ve Heard It’s Good Luck

I’ve heard the birds are herding our words
Hoarding our nouns and hiding our verbs
Amassing an arsenal of arguments
In nests throughout the ‘burbs
To pepper us with platitudes
And bombard us with blurbs
Call it pigeon propaganda
(So said the little bird)
So I’m cautious of the crow
I see cawing on the curb
And I’m wary of the wren
As he’s easy to disturb
For avian avengers
Are hiding in the herbs
And today’s topiary twitters
Tomorrow may be turds

I haven’t posted since… February or so?  Didn’t check the date on my last post, but it’s been a while.

I’m thinking I’d like to start posting semi-regularly again.  I don’t know how often people stumble across this site, but I like knowing my poetry is out there for people to read, regardless of whether or not it gets commented on.  I like to imagine the occasional web surfer stumbles across something I’ve written, and they can relate to it in some way.  Maybe it brightens their day.  Maybe it doesn’t.

But in those moments when you feel something, deeply, you are alive.

I haven’t been writing as regularly as I used to.  I still have plenty of time to do so, but there are a lot of distractions in the modern world, and I find what little I am writing hasn’t been of a quality I’m willing to share.  Not that my judgment of such things is unbiased…

Still, perhaps the simple acting of writing, every day, regardless of what comes out, will help me tap back into that inner wellspring of inspiration which has been running dry these past few months.

This is a call to my muse!

Sing to me!