the lizard hears the muffled sound of the locusts coming,
his drool drips from his mouth and wets the floor,
everything is germ or germination.
the strong and indifferent sun burns the yellow spikes.
how many times do i need to say it will hurt?
that this path has so many and such holes?
if I suffered all this.
if I fell on everyone.
the living brown cloud swallows field and lizard.
this life is a barren arid moon,
sun and furrowed soil nothing more.
under the earth the heat strangles the seeds.
I look at you like I always did before,
what kind of victory has this demented pride built?
after all who loved who?
heat of the burning harvest,
the dry carcass of violated tenderness,
charred remains of what looked good.
Categories:
germination, lost love, pain,
Form: Free verse
When hurt descends from the tree of life and
The stepladder breaks straight onto your pain
A trampoline turned jo-jo strangles creeping ivy
Entangles in trapezes and dreams of surrender
Pick me up where I have buried my wounded soul
Uncover my darkness and cradle my weeping heart
Mind gaps’s emotions and feelings of rational thought
Transcend into vibrating light of balance and harmony
At the bottom of searching for circles’ impermanence
Rests a rusty wheel barrow that nestles a garden of love
Sheds a load from my shoulders and unburdens torment
Fallow fields harbour seeds of regrowth and compassion
15th January 2020
Categories:
germination, life,
Form: Free verse
You write a poem
write another
and several more
then you pen a poem
that has you talking to yourself
rising up and out of your chair
staring at the words
thinking art, checking craft
you start walking
pacing
back and forth
the hand on your hip
posturing a bit of attitude
(be)cause you just might be right about the poem
your other hand’s orchestrating molecules of air
to the beat of the piece’s syncopated rhythm
'n your liken’ the rhymes within its lines
how they turn in your mind
you give some thought to their sinuous grace
and you’d like to check these facts
with that everyday face
at three a-m
but he lives on a different planet
in an opposite space
where I love you is a voodoo incantation
and passion is relegated nine to five
and taking calls
which brings you back to the page
but not to the chair
that frustrated hand
still on your hip
the other disturbing atoms of air
over puddles of unused ink
in a subliminal breach
of unanswered silence
And the heart ticks
while the word beats
at the door of a mind
some distance away...
Categories:
germination, on writing and words,
Form: Verse