It's not the pen
It is the ink
But it is the dishes
and not the sink
and it's never in your eye
but in your wink
it's just frozen in the ice
not spinning in the rink.
It's your body
and not your clothes
it's the stuff
that rarely shows
It's just the stuff
that wind just blows
the stuff
that rarely shows
It's the stuff that the wind blows-away,
and the stuff you never seem to say.
Tickle your toes. . .
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nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
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there ain't no other place like you to roam. where I dug in my heels and said "No, I won't come home!" Dancing in the warb...
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wide-eyed and curious, he peeks from his shell with seaweed speckles, where 8 monarch butterflies landed permanently. he puts his footing on...
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To my fellow poets, for William Shakespeare Discredit all that you will read about me. Treasonous hands have bestowed difficult words which ...
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A woman's stance feet parted so that like a breezy window the mantle opened slightly lets in curves of salty air- but here there is no, ...
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There is something spooky about me. I am certain of it. Or else why does the thought of you dying for me, somehow slightly perk me up. Bette... -
I was just awarded the Perfect Poet Award from Promising Poet's Cafe/Jingle Poetry. I'm excited, I want to nominate everybody but I... -
Recently I have been really attempting to delve into what it means to be a poet. Jim Morrison once wanted to be a poet, and look where it go...
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driving home from the farmer's market- I can't see anything- through this storm- I come home to sleep- with you-rest in your arms fu... -
River Crossing for Langston Hughes My descent is to the South. And it makes my pen itch with anxiety. For I have spent days holding my breat...
Poets United Contributor
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