#OctPoWriMo 9 – Poet’s Stoop

Hot coffee, cold concrete.
The poet’s stoop on an October morning.
The suburban neighborhood is quiet on Sunday.
Some have gone off to the game,
Others to church,
Others languish in bed
Avoiding the chores
Like mowing the lawn a final round
Or washing last night’s dishes.
So the poet watches the world without them,
Where the birds fly and the leaves fall
And the sliver of moon smiles down in the daylight,
Sitting on the cold concrete
Sipping hot coffee.


#OctPoWriMo 5 – Summer Grasses

Summer grasses as high as my head
Seeds cast wide and ready to spread
In the wind stalks bow as one
The honored summer deed is done

Cicadas sing their chorus bold
Perched upon the strands of gold
The dark dragonfly horde amasses
Just above the summer grasses

I pass among Nature’s drifting motes
Pen in hand I make my notes
The easterly wind turns the weather vanes
The sun presses down as summer wanes

With a whisper, the summer grasses part
A rusty doe from hiding darts
Eyes wide, she catches sight of me
To the high summer grasses again does flee

#OctPoWriMo 16

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.

Form: Florette