It’s time for sleep. Goodnight.

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Naughty children scurry
through the streets,
between the houses

where ivy scales the brick
as tragedy envelopes a heart,
tipping mailboxes

so the shadows harbored
deep in that tin
spill and ink the night darker.


This Morning

This morning, I wasn’t quite sure what to write about, but I knew I wanted to write. This poem is born from that uncertainty.

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This Morning

I’m lost.
Befuddled is a better word.

I’ve yet to discover
how dragons creep
between shadows.
Perhaps, they are crafted
from that black stuff,
that darkness enveloping,
cooling the hot seed of their hearts.

And why do butterflies wobble their flight?
Do wizard’s braid their beards with magic,
hiding their secrets behind that bounty of age?
Are spiders fallen shards of night
shattered by the birth of stars?

Today, with a cup of hot tea,
sweet with honey, I’ll ponder and dream,
searching for answers that are most likely written
on the crisp of autumn leaves
or trumpeted in the tenderness
of a cat’s contented purr.


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I know many things, small one. I can compel a dragon to warm my tea and convince quarrelsome trolls that naps remedy most ills. I’ve learned the language of trees and can read their histories on the skin of autumn leaves. I’ve even muddled time’s hearty pace when I’ve needed a bit more of it to suit my needs, but true wisdom isn’t knowing what you’ve done or what you can do; it’s knowing what you can’t do…without a little help. So then, if it’s help you wish for, I have some for you.

A Poet

I am twelve blog followers away from 800. If you would, if you could, recommend my blog, these words, to another. Below, I’ve shared a bit about myself. Many thanks, fine people.

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A Poet

A poet,
as gray as plague,
rarely forgets
the worlds
that surge,

slither and creep,
in the shadows
that layer
the cool earth
beneath a rock

and will often stoop
to feel it, to know
that magic’s gentle heft
still calms
his palsied hand.