Sunday, March 1, 2020

Lying under trees

The city screams at me to race,
Buses snarl
Signs grip me, draining their venom right down
to the logo
I walk with a scowl, and judge other scowls
I breathe in greed and shut out need
I carry it on my shoulders;
shallow breaths

Tilt my brain
Blue sky flood
Exchanged with an old woman ahead of me on the bus



The time to write will come

I give you my latest poem
as good as any I’ve read

always the last I’ll write

poetry is the bird on the windowsill

that appears

when nothing could be further from your mind,
when you least feel like a poet

by grace the bird appears when finally

I put pen down and start living.

if you’re moving in step with life,
giving as you should
taking as you should,

leaving behind as you should
remembering as you should

..then your eyes will be open to the soft landing
of sparrows' feet at your window