Echoes

There is something haunting in those melodies,
those cords.
Time has escaped
and brought us squarely present.
Hear our ancestors' echoes
as the divide of time elapses with each note.
Heartache and regret
sadness and a hint of joy.

You might be a Tea-Pot but I'm a Wildflower

I'm like a Kentucky wildflower
waiting around all winter.
I need a little nourishment and a bit of sun.
I get thorny sometimes too.
Come spring I feel anticipation in my roots.
I'll grow tall with a little encouragement
and bend down in a little wind.
Please be careful to not
mow me down.
I'm damned to be either
admired
hated
or ignored.

.

Your Eyes

For a second I see you

reflecting back at me knowingly.

To show me something

I'm not clear about.

The what is not yet defined

but it is there.

All I can see are your eyes.

I no longer have your voice.

My Note Book

I only stop by my rock next to my creek to

write in my small silver notebook because

there are few pages left and I'm longing for

my next little notebook. This new one is red.

It's as simple as this.

These words that flow from my pen.

I've been writing in this tattered notebook

for months now. Pulling out the used pages and transcribing

them after close review into my poems.

Poor pathetic simple poems that I create only as

a promise to myself that I will this year contribute

fifty two times my poetic musings .

Those words swirl around without any real purpose, wisdom

or quality. Those words just say

on balance my life is like a see saw

tipping me to one side or the other.

Sad or happy, content or unsettled,  tired or energetic.

It has all depended on

the way the pen drops on these very pages

in this old tattered  notebook

that I'm anxious to discard for a new one.

Dammit I still have few more pages left before I can begin again.