Tag: free verse

Field of Dreams

Broken bicycle a
clear compound
fracture
of the spine
whiskers of rust
a twilight shadow
along its lines
barely visible in
what once was a
field of dreams
does its long time
best friend ever think
of it on warm June
afternoons?

Saturday Does What It Wants

Behold!
A sunny Saturday
that four days ago
was snowy and two
days past was
overcast and wet
has arrived sans
umbrella or heavy coat
thumbing his breezy nose
at those who claimed
to have known him
not giving a damn
about all the plans
he upended

Waif

Following the old lines
of lost sad fishermen
up from the depths
to the empty nets
salt glistening from the
tickle of the moon’s
light on the ghost ships
plying the night
on the Great Lakes
I found a poem
A smallish waif
afraid of the dark
Unwilling to wet its
toe on the page

One Gentle Hour

I need it to be Spring
for one gentle hour
Me seated on a stone
by a mountain stream
birds singing
bees buzzing
bluebells flowering
in fullness glowing
their buoyant glow
Just an hour
The I’ll come home

Passing By The World Tree

I spoke to Yggdrasil
on my way back,
or leaving,
One of those two
That is I tried to speak
but Ratatoskr kept
disturbing my thoughts
scurrying from
bottom to top
chattering invective
Curses I hadn’t
heard before and I
forgot my words
so I walked away,
Or towards,
One of those two

Me I Am

a dislocated shoulder
in society’s strait jacket
of arcane ideas of
who I should be
painfully extricating
from erstwhile expectations
and moth eaten misconceptions
Me I am and
me I’ll be
wriggling free
from institutionalized
lies and manufactured
rigidity

Only Me

I shall write like
Jane Kenyon!
I decided emphatically
as I set her collected
works aside duly inspired
I put pen to paper
to write
and write I did!
but once again I find
only me
only me
and it’s
only Wednesday

It’s decided

that I shall plant a
Victory garden to
celebrate . . .
what?
Nothing shocks me anymore
Is being numb a win?
A grey garden with
Giant Silver Mullein
and
Mexican Ghost Plants
in a bed of
jagged
shattered
slate
only gazed at on
cloudy days
as befits one sedated
by man’s hatred

The Eagle and I

Driving to Sperryville today
to score more raw honey
for the pantry
wipers squeaking maddeningly
on this drear winter day
I met an eagle along the way
perched midway up a small
dead tree looking decidedly
indignant
Crestfallen
not to be soaring high
through a clear blue sky
and for a moment we
were the same
He and I