Sunday, April 4, 2010

In the Mood for Poetry...of a Sort

I don't know why my poetry lately is sad.  I guess it's the type of poetry I like to write the best--though I don't like to read it the best.  I have this thing with nature and flowers, if you haven't guessed by now. 

I do not claim to be a poet, I just love to play with words.  Sometimes getting them out is as satisfying as removing a small splinter from my finger.  Both pain and pleasure coexist and support healing.

Bean is waiting to sleep, so I'll leave it at that.
 

But not Forgotten
Dripping water spigot
splashy, lukewarm

Leaning metal bucket
Rusty, melting

Acrid, dusty earth
powder, halted

Wilted, paling bud
Drooping, sighing

Faucet sobs
Bucket bides
Earth grieves
Flower dies.

Brightly laughing child
Skips near, slowing

Bud in rosy hand
Drop falls, at last.

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