Poems

There’s so much to do
As nothing sits beside
Like laundry or letters
That need to be folded

Or anything seen more
Pressing in yesterday’s
Same clothes, hanging
On from wearing its own

Carried Away

I bit my lip at thoughts
About how clouds are
Influentially
Driven into how much
They could carry away
A planetary
Body thinking too deep
Of miracles and dreams
Constantly
Writing up the moon to
A star, not that far away
Geographically
As the bird flies so easily
Believing in closed eyes
Instinctively
Giving living daydreams
Back into the rainy night
As Innocently

 

Of Belgian Lace

I want knowledge,
Endless paper as
A vintage scroll
Forward facing

And lace making
Tools ancestors
Used, to practice
Their language

Hanging in sepia
Windows behind
Stern expressions
Of chatelaines I’d

Like to inherent
How they knew
Bombs were on
The way to bricks

If Lady liberty is
Still forgiving as
Threads wound
Tightly around pins

 

Ahead

Silence whittled into a stick
Ready to hang a bandana full
Of worldly expressions

Evocative discussions with
Rocks kicked, the horizon, or
Railroad car graphics

Blurred past, talked along to
The raindrop’s path, tapping
Itself on dusty pages

And Mine

If diamond rings cut
Glass as throats, I
Don’t want it anymore
Than growing male
Anatomies between my

Morality, sparkling as
A dilemma pressed
Against bosom, chest
Getting puffier minute
By the unimpressive lint

Picked pockets lined
All I’ve saved into
Through, like my soul
I can poke and plug in
Just enough guts, stories

Glories without a dime

 

Continuing, Of Being

I’ve noticed, maybe not as
Fast as it should’ve hit, it’s
Sitting, still as the keypad
After the blink, thinking of
Word counts shouting out
Loud, about how hard you
Have to tap, again into the
Beautiful light of oblivion
Living like the night skies
Beneath my starry types
Hiding, near anonymously
Sleeping, deep, keeping its
Sights set to sunrise, while
Running still, in that dream