Tag: The poet speaks

Sleepless or Sleepful

Sketchpad Honey and Fire

“If you ain’t never used your knuckles,”
the poet said,
“you ain’t never measured.”

The paper appears to be six by
I don’t know, three knuckles
I’m not paying attention.

He drew a tree,
grew tired of trees,
and it became a spaceship,

dunes under a moon,
a beautiful halting face
reminiscent of honey and fire

scorched Damned,
a multitude of us now,
quietly suffering eternal…

“Once you’ve touched god,”
the poet speaks,
“you just get weaker.”

Drifting

This entry is part 3 of 12 in the series Undrafted, February 2015

I’ve just realized something,
   the poet speaks,
as cars materialize and disappear
   tumbling wrong angles
on this malinformed trip

Wishing Well

Marigolds for the bugs
and I’m  not ready yet

then, balancing a stick on his head,
the poet speaks his vision

floating on a cloud in the dark

but it was more like
stillness and  vibration