and no words came
no thoughts
no notions
the lateness
adding urgency
but that block
that negative space
blinding and heavy
causing me unwanted
refrain
until that replete dam
swelled and opened at the seams
the tiniest trickle revealed
hoping to expand a crack
and engulf my page
mks
head down, eyes
grounded
he plows his rows
so close to the edge
so focused
carefully planning the
intent of each step
Blind
to the sweeping
beauty of the sun
meeting the sea
as the ships sail out,
the fishermen fish,
the shepherd daydreams,
and Daedalus’ son falls
virtually undetected
mks
There’s a peach rotting in the fruit bowl.
It’s a sickly sort of sweet.
And I’ve been drinking.
Fireman's 4.
Not that the two have anything to do
With each other.
I find it always helps
To wear my bathrobe when I
Sit down to write.
mks
The day fades West and upon us is night.
Our time, Oberon’s time, to lurk and dance and play is at night.
Cool and damp, mossy and dank without the harsh, blinding sun
That fat happy toad visits our porch at night.
All the stars of all the worlds behind those low, pale clouds
Watch and wink at us when we come out at night.
Under the soft moon glow, distant owls howl and revel
While Dax Riggs sings us songs about the night.
Should ever this time meet us so unfairly as to be lost,
I believe my sadness would substitute for the night.
And Titania with her stolen babe and entourage of spirited sex
May take pity and empathetically restore our unmet night.
But even frequent memories of exhausted days struggling
Through reason and responsibility never remind us to sleep at night.
Watching those hours pass like minutes like seconds
Drowsy at the moment the sun returns to burn off the night.
No more of our adolescence as we lumber off to bed
And to me you turn to say “Good morning, Kate” until the night
Comes again.
mks