Oh, dear reader
of short-line
poems,
are you, like me,
short of breath?
Have you tried
to read
my short-shift stuff,
with ever so
short-lines,
Aloud?
It's sad to say
it sounds
a tad choppy!
Like it's,
ridin' on
bobbin' seas,
sailing into
a head-wind
over the air-ways.
It rollicks along
with carriage returns,
unwinding,
flowing freely
from margins
set tight,
to waterfall.
Sad to say,
I'm done with it!
For me personally,
a poem
is just a thought,
a heady
daydream fling,
until its read,
Out-Loud!
He sits in the sand, but has gone to another land.
He digs and he tosses then smiles so grand.
Blond hair blowing in the breeze,
As he rollicks about on his knees;
His mouth moves and hands gesture;
A wave to the sea gulls makes me believe;
A day at the beach was a wonderful plan.
the body,
of his work.
by his hand,
the fingernail moon lamp set on dim
sits in front an ultramarine drape
child orange at its base
by his hand,
the onyx climb, a mountainous terrain
muscular and oiled this inklike back foil
with its carefully placed rocks
by his hand,
her body fine
inclined
inset
by his hand,
she
basks,
rollicks,
she tans ivory white.
in the safety
in the dead of the night
in the stolen light the moon reflects
by his hand,
her body unconcealed
she pays homage
to midnight
to
the body,
of his work.