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, ...
-
Today I was interviewed for Poets United small stone: July 13th so many things for granted, taken: two kinds of silverware.
-
Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. and...
-
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...
-
There is a hidden warmth in you you do not show to others and it pulls me under like quick sand. Or maybe it is the movement of the sands th...
-
That previous December, a little voice was coyly in-treat-ing: "Take an angry butcher knife to your hair, and paint it the color of a s...
-
a know-nothing non-something, a song, a back-slap, a tree without sap. crowned with ceremony and melancholia- a whistle, a snap. a marriage ...
-
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... -
RICK: Hey Rick? DICK: Yea, Dick? RICK: See that sky roll on by? (points) DICK: ...Oh, my... RICK: Don't i-t'almost makes yer wanner.... -
strange tree, your flowers look like badminton birdies.
Poets United Contributor
No comments:
Post a Comment