Thursday, June 28, 2012

A Shifty Wicket

The wick on her candle
    dances on vowels,
Tumbles on syllables
    'til finally she growls.
She stares for a couplet,
    sublime and serene,
Begs of the wax
    to show her a scene.
Where lithe gods of words
    come out to play,
And sprinkle out stardust
    of black lead in sprays,
Upon her white journal,
    the lines empty now.
She's humbled by flame
    and brittle from drought.

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Orbiting Writer's Planet

After sifting through my notes and thoughts, nothing seems blog-worthy. Some of you might call it writer's block. I prefer to call it orbiting writer's planet. I used to live on writer's planet. It was a place full of words and wonderful ideas, sheer excitement for great couplets of plot tied to poetic phrases. Except, I was jettisoned and find myself floating around the planet like a lost moon. The woman on the face of the moon has a pale face and wanting eyes and no arms for reaching. The moon can be a good place to observe the planet where the words flowed, because it demands of the moon lady some perspective. Was the planet beautiful, as beautiful as it seemed when she was living on it? If it was, how does she get back? She lives in a foreign atmosphere and waits for the air to become familiar.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Bull Dog in a Zippered Fleece

It causes me to saunter,
rock on my haunch and pawnder.
A frightful parade, I wander,
         in a zipper and a collar.
Bought on sale for just a dollar.
       My dignity surely squandered.

*Written last winter after seeing a bulldog come out of a neighbor's house wearing a fleece of many colors.