phoenix monsoon storm
haboob isn’t dirty word
it is dusty though
words
Poetry of spring
Springtime is a poet —
the blue sky its blank page
so vibrant green in rhyme
a different metre for every clime
birds chirping to keep the time
wildflowers yellow, red, purple divine
words dancing on tall blades of grasses
sparkling in the morning dews
no commas the flow keeps buzzing
vernal dashes & blossoming branches
on newly greening verdant trees
refrains whispering in each breeze
butterflies — floating apostrophes
ladybugs dot floral question marks
blissful bees stray stanza to stanza
seeds disperse from verse to verse
continuing a poem that’s never ended
and into summer’s colors is blended
Soiled
If organic is the natural way, shouldn’t organic produce just be called “produce” and make the pesticide-laden stuff take the burden of
Word altar
An author can be just a writer, but a translator must always be a poet.
Non compos mentis
after a few beers, my nouns stumble
and my verbs can no longer talk straight —
O! yes after a few good beers verbs blunder
and nouns fall flat on their faces
Silence in the poet
after a lifetime of doing almost nothing
but collecting words, now — here i am
finding that my life has become all about
that which cannot be expressed by words —
after a half-life of a burning desire to write
in order to find myself, suddenly i’ve found
an even more impassioned desire to write
by leaving behind that moulten shell, and
in this moment i find — silence is poetry
when the poet has nothing more to say
I sew ragged
Poetry is patchwork —
& only the best poets
can hide all the seams.
Inching along, leaving behind
the poet is a sensitive snail —
wandering along the path of life
leaving a glittering trail of words
Wordcloth
An author, behind his words, is naked.
Literary life
My life is — in a word — words.
Letters from the garden
An author plants the alphabet — and harvests nourishment, flowers, and weeds.
Vein
i bleed words,
ink drops, and
poetry merges —
blackish-crimson
autobiography