Mosquito desk
Of the late spring
Bringing in the scene
Of summerlings
Mosquitos buzzing
In the woods and near the ankle
Mosquito desked carved
From the same woods
That share the forest
Mosquitos deflect the seasons
And arise in the summer
Anew
Poetry day
Words on the lips
Feelings in the bones
Up the leg
And out the hips
Sunday
A day of reflection
Some say
But today
For me
Is poetry day
The gram
The moment catcher
Significant time grabber
Holder of hopes
Dreams and
Desperate things
Cute dog commodities
Cats in cradles
Rocked like babies
Capture monster
Turning good people
Bad
Creating emotions
We never knew we had
Making young ones desperate
To outdo their friends
Or end up depressed
This capture monster
Roaming on the internet
What have we begun
And so much to regret
Headwinds
When you have skin
In the game
Direct linear regressions
When progression
Is needed to keep
The boats at sea
Afloat
For another day
Coat tails in blasted
Fury
Scurry
With scared hopes
Feelings down
And thin
Gallery Road
Long time
To make it home
Between the outlets
And the dissonance
Is a front
That all artist want
To be a part of
Continuation
Of
Work
And contemplation
Take me down gallery road
Before I move on
Before I am too old
A gem of an experience
Not in it’s worthiness
But in it’s emotion goodness
Tied up to the neck
In suit and tie
Trying to cut loose
On an easy Tuesday night
Ice cream diamonds
I will say
For this moment
Will never fade away
White marble walls
Clad with grey lines
Sign of the times
Good and indifferent
All in one place
Easy love
Slow pace
Coffee ground
Into finite matter
In the cup
And on the platter
Can we define the future
Decide with knife and suture
What will be remembered
And forgotten
Is the past obsolete
Or a defining feature
Of what growth must be
Debating
What will lead us forward
Or what holds us back
Can we define the future
And be so matter of fact
Some will be dismissed
Some gathered
My own mind
Would rather
Be in the moment
And experience reality
Not technology
Depressions ridden
Alphabetically
Future
Or
Past
What will go
And what will last
Burning bread
Morning doors
Open
Waiting for change
Momentum
Healing the wounds
We have made
And open
Burning bread on
Tuesday morning
Jade of the 60’s
Green in its glory
Floral wishes
Morning territory
A jade in the grass
Amongst the leaves
Of history and preset
Present hope
To find the jade
Lost entirely
Lost amongst the years
And in the crest
Of the oldest tree
A Cup of Songwriting 