Old pieces of the puzzle of life,
Bits faded and edges ragged.
Uneven, they’ve lost their fit.
They fall away, many forgotten.
New pieces, crisp edges,
Adding to the unknown image,
With an unknown edge.
A puzzle without a picture.
Great horned owl hooting
Echoed by a dark partner
Nocturne of the wild
City east, farm west
The edge of suburbia
Edges blur when the owl
Speaks to me across the dark
Writing a poem oft falls flat
Like a balloon at the claw of a cat.
Ideas lapse, fade and fumble.
I find myself start to mumble about all that.
Coalescing schemes might bear fruit
If I can force them like a brute.
Interrupted, I might stumble.
Irritated, I might mumble, “Where is the root?”
A branching tree of nouns and verbs.
My limp enthusiasm curbs.
The verse again fails to appear,
My washed brain unable to steer the poet blurbs.
My wordy tree branch starts to crack;
Inspiration sky fades to black.
A unrhyming weight buries me
Beneath the unpoetic tree dying out back.
Ribbons. Soft light
Penetrates the clouds
Of icy mist drifting
Effortlessly above the
Earth. A frosty night is coming.
Morning will find green surfaces white
With shimmering crystals of bright sunlight.
We lack connection
We suffer loneliness
Entering this room I always cringe.
I keep my stance upon the fringe.
Enduring countless minutes wasted,
Roasting in dread like a turkey basted
Nonsense persists when mouths hinge wide.
The speaker lacks a sense of pride.
Petty bickering wrongly ensues;
My mind clouds with a shade of blues.
My brain shuts down, the words not heard.
I’d rather watch that tiny bird
Across the street, up in the tree.
Oh, how I wish that could be me!
Rolling my eyes, I a wish I make,
“Shut the hell up for goodness sake!”