I use odd words In everyday speech. Ink runs from my mouth Indelibly impressed by the ancients and Imitator of their thought. Identified proudly with the lovers of wisdom, Intellect is no obscenity to me. postscript For day 13. Poetic form: Pleiades I don't mean to say this…
I fled him down the nights and down the days But I ran unaware I would be caught. For love is greater yet than rebel ways And would that I had known t'was all for naught. I am too loved to be left free to stray And he…
At times I may forget it in the midst of the mundane When the sound of your soft breathing, unobtrusive as the rain Is puncturing the night, soft and slow, full and real That we once walked in misted evenings, starlight we could feel. And we surrendered memories beneath the…
A million ways to scatter light And change the future overnight, And yet you rest content with one. Don't leave your work of art undone. 'Tis your own breath: 'tis full and real Of life and beauty. Into dark Your innovation launches sparks; Oh art and…
Nobody else writes poems like I do. The fixed-form poet's art is old and dry. It limits creativity? Not true. But yes, perhaps its day is long gone by. Oh wait--there are yet writers springing free On heels of metered verse and rhyming ends. Alright: nobody writes in…