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. . .
-
like me- it serves as a question as well as an appropriately foolish letter in bad company it only teams up with words like yodel, ...
-
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
-
August 2003! A spree, and the W.A.P another month of you and possibly me W.A.P stands for wild animal park, if you don't remember- the ...
-
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across but... -
in August for John Keats I didn't die unrequited. I took a wife in August. My wife was wearing silky white shoulders holding out her bon...
-
To those who forget Poesy, like she's the wallflower at the dance I'm sorry you've never known words to be like picnic ants infe...
-
I might even chance to stand on your back, for a lift, I wish my conscience could shirk the endless streaming seeds, inside my head, your br...
-
My latest endeavor is to begin reading "Tell it Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction" by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paula...
-
I swing in a mini skirt and pill box hat, cat-eyes and pompadour hair, wild in my Stiletto-heeled shoes- and I skulk in a monk dress with th...
-
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...
Poets United Contributor
No comments:
Post a Comment