Poetry

Sense

I take a day and pop it, pill-like, into my mouth.

At first, it’s sour. Scrunched-face sour.

Then the coating dissolves in the rain.

My tongues finds sugar in the flower petals,

bright flags ready to be folded with the first frosts.

Catching, strong coffee finds me. I don’t

like the taste of coffee. I don’t drink it.

I absorb the bold, smokey bean smell

and take energy just from that. Cut grass,

dew-wet, on walking  boots. Spikes

that fall to people, instead of people

falling to spikes. Tea to wash it down.

Poetry

A painting of Venus

Opening up like a cracked

walnut shell

yearning to peek at the world,

you see a flash of blue satin

dance across the sky.

Tides rise high

and crash

with soft flecks

against your cheek,

staining your skin

with rainbows.

Under your feet

the earth shifts

to accommodate your scent.

It has known you

always,

but now

you have changed.

It must know you again.

Poetry

Leaf Litter (draft)

Leaves drift across the way,

sweeping up the memories of

evening walks, lazy afternoon strolls and

those crisp morning jogs to catch the train.

 

Swirling up into a tight ball,

they cascade around my body

to fall at my feet.

I absorb them, as if they are a

soft mulch begging to fertilize.

 

A hundred rays of winter sun

swarm down to dance in my hair,

as the warm, soft rain

of spring drips onto my nose,

showering me with growth.

 

The rush of euphoria rides up my spine,

causing a clucking laughter to escape

my lips, jostling about on the humid breeze

to mingle with dawn’s robust chorus.