If there’s nothing else to write about,
you can always write about
there being nothing to write about.
Poems. Poems. Poems.
Flowing through my brain,
Turning round the bends and curls,
Getting stuck again.
Blocking. Blocking. Blocking.
The creative thread has snapped.
Try to burst the brain-tube dam
When creativeness is sapped.
Writing. Writing. Writing.
About what’s on my mind:
Writer’s block and poetry
Is the subject that you’ll find.
Reading. Reading. Reading.
Through the lines of verse.
We all know what you’re thinking,
Could this get any worse?
Tracks lie, a ladder to the horizon-slit sky,
climbed by yellow grass; through swirls of dust-breeze
an iron cricket pumps its steaming legs.
Men in its belly heave black lump after lump
into a burning stomach that paints their skin
yellow, black, and red.
Perhaps you’re not fluent
in your first language,
and some fidget in the pauses,
but I like to rest
on the hillside of your silence
and bask in echoes of rainbows
misting over distant peaks.
Rags roll out of the digits’ swagger
bouncing on piano keys.
When I was a child
I took my helium balloon outside.
It flew away–
I stayed behind.
Photo credit: Flikr, DarrelBirkett, “Up,” August 15, 2012
(Found in Snail Trails, a short book of small poems)
There once was a man named Shrewd
Who was just that to the Tea.
His family for generations had Brewed,
Steeping themselves in money.
Your self-esteem has magnetic
despite your osteoporosis back.
How did you get a sexy baby bump
from my bearing children?
[Made use of a poetic “I”]
The convenience of a
A perspective so close. So
Excerpt from Snail Trails, a mini book of short poetry.
Only four hours.
I had all day,
But didn’t use more
Than four hours.
Mediocre time I detest.
It is neither fun
Nor is it rest.