Poems (Page 13)

A quill pen and an ink well rest on an old, open book in a library.

Let us begin to write with colour.
Measuring beats with the stroke of a pen.
Not all are meant to share with another,
but help us recall lost moments again.

[continue]. . .

A dying tree, its bark peeling, exposes the dried-out trunk beneath. It is the first in a long row of chestnut trees that line a country road.

Looking at trees
that line the drive
while long in perdition
my heart it cries

Enclosed in its wounds
her visage it lies
the inside is dead
not but skin left alive

[continue]. . .

A purple ball of wool yarn, with two silver knitting needles poking through it, is nestled within a white, tan, and brown knit scarf, beside two browned leaves, on a white wooden table.

the needles were once
in capable hands
though having been grasped
they resided with man

the power now his
a pattern he made
as the intended design
had started to fade

[continue]. . .

A macro image of a green grasshopper, with golden-brown legs, clinging to blades of grass in a field.

I am a dog lying in the doorway, a casual observer of clouds, filled with excitement, I run, spin, fall, arise, and do it again. I am an explorer of worlds, paddling down a stream. seeing old places as though new. filled with life and thought.

[continue]. . .