Short Dry Out Poems

I meant to call you,
But I am so forgetful.
Friendship is fragile.
Gardens that are neglected
Dry out in the summer sun....

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Having grabbed shelter in a tree-shade 
When a bird flaps its soggy wings 
Along with water droplets 
Some remegies fall down 
Scattered later on 
Lifted by wind 
When dry out 
After 
Rain...

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Gathered we were with solemn faces
Embracing each other different places
Measuring all the feelings inside
Induced into a constant river of love
Never to dry out or to stop
Immensely into the silent cold drop...

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This place where thorn bushes don’t flourish 
Punishing 
They wait for rain 
They dry out in pain 
Running blue blood from their core 
Scouring sun burns them slowly 
They die a senseless death 
In the dark...

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the body's whole but writhe,

the entire head, aches,

the side, annoying throb,

hand's two, far gone,

foot's both drained, 

body all bloody wet,

need to hang here and dry out.



2019 September 10...

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A pretty little rose born in desert land
Growing in torched hot sand 
Where loneliness all around 
And no company can be found 
Lashed by sunlight
Dry out in hot thirsty night 
Though don't know why to live 
Fragrance it can give 
And it will do 
Thought I can't smell you 

Wednesday   2004
...

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Dive
Down
Deep, now;
Decide for yourself
Do you know
Desperation as I do?

Demons
Drive these
Drugs though my veins

Descending
Daily into Hell;
Damaged intentions to
Dry out,
Defeated by addiction

Damned in every
Dimension of life;
Dealers lurk,
Dangle
Dope and
Dare me...

Do it,
Do it!...

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I’m from Michigan.
I don’t know what I want.
So I just go to school in state to save money.
The money lives in a Michigan bank.
I cheer our school mascot.
At a football game and it rains and snows.
I’m from Michigan.
I’m as worried as the Great Lakes.
Someday, we’ll dry out together.
But for now.
We stay in a forgotten state.
I’m from Michigan....

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I pegged them out on my clothes line,
   Like puppets on a string.
   Those baggy pants fit for a clown,
   Such laughter they did bring.

   That claret shirt, high as a kite,
   And three sheets to the wind.
   They will dry out, to my delight,
   My wet suit it has sinned.


   George. Seal.   4/ 1/ 2015.
   No. 3 clothesline.
   Let me feel your lines....

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The old ones talk 
of a mythical creature
that dwells behind the grey curtain.
They call it “sun”
and speak of it as if
they had seen it
with their own eyes.

What an impossible fable!
A white ball
that can breathe fire
and dry out
the soggy soil,
and that shines light,
brighter than this gloomy glow?

Shivering, we huddle
close to the speakers
as if their fairy tale
could warm us.

3/29/2018...

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Pray tell, my dear
How full is it?
The capacity of which it can hold?

If you would allow me to fill it
To look within it
The contains which are dry and old...

Your life's story
Must carry on
You need new ink to write

Let me, my dear
Fill your heart
And replace the ink from inside..

I'll make you new
It won't dry out
Not in this lifetime..

If you would let me
Fill your heart
And claim you as mine...

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I finally figured out
Living is first,
Not writing;

Which is why writers 
Have a hard time living.

(And yet, if words 
Were never made 
I'd be singing at the moon.)

The truth (for some) is:
Not writing is not living.
Which is why there are writers.

I myself rail against the tag,
A free man in the dark abyss,
I bow and storm off

Leaving the bottom sediment
Of the Inevitable Purge to dry out
In the burning sun....

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Daylight is wide-eyed, it glares
like an angry samurai.
We are pinned down
naked to the piecing sun.
It's all too exposing -
the heat flays and burns.
A violent light fries sunscreens,
drills through sunhats
while we blink under gritty lids.
The humidity drains,
we slouch, crouch,
strain out our words.
Its’ a dry dog time
where doggedly nothing wags.
We dream of cooling winds,
of those days
when a salty sweat did not
dry-out our lolling tongues....

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