Full rounded heart,

Eyes that are sore with weeping,

Dark like and arrow piercing,

And ever the hand is writing.

You draw yourself, so many new lines.

Role after role you sketch, and toss away.

Mind that is ever writing

My own hard epitaphs,

Blaming my eyes for weeping

Over dusty photographs.

The past is a well told tragedy

And you a...

Read and leave comments (2)

In the utter darkness the fine piping of birds begins another dawn.

The insistent cat pushes between my fingers and the open page.

There is a meaning in the poise of my face and pen before the page,

But the cat has no knowledge of it.

She pushes her whole black purring self across my face.

Her paws step softly on the paper.

She thrusts her head against the moving p...

Read and leave comments (6)

How slowly turn the thoughts inside my head,

Searching for sentences that are not dead.

How difficult to find the looked for word,

Without descending into the absurd.

How hard it is to make a simple rhyme,

Yet poets do this nearly all the time.

Iambic phrases slip out easily,

But making sense is much too hard for me.

I reach for feelings, - but my thoughts are nu...

Read and leave comments (5)