Perhaps a Song

On weekdays, I rise at 4 am. I weekends, the rooster crows at 7 am. Generally, for a time after I rise, my home is still and quiet. I find these times are the best times to pursue poetry. Here’s what I discovered this morning.

Have a wonderful Saturday. Please, let me know what adventures you have planned, adventures with words or otherwise.

Image result for music instrument still life

Perhaps a Song

Yes, a lyric, I thought,
a flow of words to ramble
among the drum thumps,
as a hare hops

through the thistle,
the bramble
where thorns sting,
as cymbals clash,

above the cold stones,
sleepy bells
waiting to be rung,
but this silence sings

its own song,
the wind pattering
November’s last leaves,
and the oak branches

scratching as a bow
scratches the strings.
I listened and thought.
That was enough.

Twinkies and Tuesday Writing Tips

Here’s my final Tuesday Writing Tip, and yes I know it’s Friday. Now and then, writers, don’t be afraid to stop writing; take a break. 

I love Twinkies. They’re soft, sweet, filled with cream…they’re heaven, but I don’t eat them all the time. I can’t. I’d be sick…or worse. Writing can be like a Twinkie (of sorts). It’s fun. It’s sweet, but a writer cannot write all the time. Step away from your paper. Save your ink for another day. That’s why I’m writing a Tuesday Tip on Friday I took a break, a short one, but a break none the less.

Moving forward, I’ll offer tips when I can, if I believe they are worth your while, but I may not post these tips on a Tuesday. Sometimes, on Tuesdays, I take a break, even from Twinkies.

Through the Kitchen’s Frosted Glass

This morning, as the sun peaked above the east, bits of ice, crafted by last night’s cold, were set aflame with Helios’ favorite hues…and I was set to wonder.

Image result for frozen puddle

Through the Kitchen’s Frosted Glass

I watched a fae slide,
as a child,
upon a puddle of ice,
a frozen pool

nested in a dimple of earth
near the tulips
curled with cold,
November’s first chill.

I imagined she sang
as she slid, whistling,
lost in an instant
that she alone possessed,

a treasure to grasp
until the sparrows
litter the cold lawn
searching for seed,

any morsel that offers life,
chasing a dream’s
tiny heartbeat
back to myth.

Just a Place

I’ve been dreaming this morning. My screenplay, potentially, will earn me a bit more money than I make as a teacher. And, if all goes well, I’ll be writing more screenplays for television and movies. What have I been dreaming about? A new place to live or at least spend much of my time. A place just like this.

Image may contain: tree, sky, plant, outdoor and nature

Just a Place

Where the posts of a rail fence,
heavy with age,
sink, season by season,
into earth’s soft flesh,
the deep grass,
strewn with autumn,
seeping silence
as a sponge
spills its water.
This, near a home.
Its floors creek like an old man’s bones
as an old poet steps from room to room
shuffling to catch that lost word
darting under the tables,
behind the sofa,
a tiny gremlin,
snickering, snickering.


The Air is Wet and Chilled with November

The day is indeed chilled and wet; yet, I found my place in it and it is good. I’ve made a cup of coffee, after exploring here and there, and I’ve found these words. Would you like a cup?

Image result for rustic beer stein

The Air is Wet and Chilled with November

I’ve asked for coffee,
but not pooled in a ceramic cup
delicately festooned
with flowers and hummingbirds
nor a mug, its open mouth
gaping as a yawn,
but a stein, a vessel,
once brimmed with grog,
grasped by kings as they
crafted remembrances,
hearty knights, the victorious dead,
upon the slaying of drakes and dragons
their wings splayed in tales
there fire warming, in some way,
this cup, a coffee, steaming
here in my hand as I dream
of bigger places and bigger things.

That Heat

This piece is born from time spent in the wood (see my last two posts. Go ahead. I’ll wait. 😀)

That Heat

Moss grows thickest
on a sleeping troll

who fails to flop
from age to age,

but, rather, sinks
into earth’s soft flesh

ever descending
closer to that heat

and heart
as the moss

burrows its roots
deeper, closer

to the troll’s napping
thump and thunder.