Tag Archives: meter


Among the quichens grows a kree
a site-astoric flustsymbly.

A kree is there, not roneously,
but freet and gorl and groverly.

And how it came to grow just there,
the primmets wonder with atious care,

For quichens do not keep or share
their time or place or own elsewhere.

The primmets garnered brave and asked
the kree just how it came to pass

that it was given reign to mass
and live with quichens, in their class.

The kree looked puzzled, audly moussed
the primmetts had not gaged – deduced

the kree was here for years to roost
and shared it with the quichens fruste.


the mystery that drives and weaves
and captures all she feels and grieves-
inward lies her heart perfecting
both her days and nights, dissecting
with a tiny mirrored hand-
her sphere, it grows -afflicts the strand
which twines and knots and preys alone
and none will notice, deftly sewn
just like auroras, bold and lithe
she wanders – spreads – abates in sight.


As for me,
when Cecilia sings –
the brightened notes
awaken the spring.

Leaves are new
among the trees,
when flow’rets bud
and winter flees.

Her eyes shine,
she gestures grace
and draws me in
to her dulcet embrace.

In this prime,
her melodies swarm
and hypnotize -captivate
poesy form.

Then compelled
by aires of allure,
I write simple verses-
the memory secure.


I’ve seen the gyre and pivot
around the grain uncurled,
still- reversal and stagnation-
(and as the water swirls)

The contemplation makes its way,
all coy and taciturn,
into a rolling, restless gob
that smolders as it burns.

As leafed through- which is page on page-
then little more is left to do,
than humor – pander – orchestrate
these words that I’ve warmed to.


when the door is closed
she cries silent tears
and mines her thoughts-composed
her distress disappears

into a verse she knows by heart
and sings her soul to stir
a theme, a song the poet starts
to sketch- conveys the world to her.

such things should be in books to share
and on the page inspired
with predecessor’s ink and air
once weighted and admired.

Though now, poetic thoughts disperse
on ether, winds unbound
and beauty finds a home inversed
not on pages, written down.

and when she’s in her room, confined-
her echos and her action sings
minding thoughts-composed and rhymed
for that day and these modest things.

I read news every day about poetry being on the wane, about publications being discontinued, about fewer opportunities for poetry to be in the mainstream…it is sad, but poetry is a language that can’t be killed. It breaths life into itself. It’s subversive. It is ethereal. It constantly changes. It renews itself and us in the process. If it ever reaches the point where poetry is not printed (and I hope it never does!), it will exist on the scrap papers, napkins, brick walls and memories/minds of its practitioners.