Spitting On Emptiness
This poem was written in a botanical garden in Ghana, West Africa. The challenge from a friend was to use the phrase “spitting on emptiness” in the poem. I linger in green places. I shuffle my feet on wet earth, the cirrus are a heavy grey with rain and emotion dampness in thick air twilight’s colors awaken me I thirst I drink flower purple and eat rubber tree latex I sway in nature’s gripping and smug, as if spitting on emptiness I splash barefoot in mud puddles dance to cricket song and leaves breathe. My wooden cup is full
South Carolina
Skipping through fields I dance with the sun Or she dances with me… I don’t know which, and who cares about that? Certainly not the wheat tips As they sway to the music And watch us play.
Real Life
The trees breathe on the streets And the streetlamps burning gold In frosty shadows Distant cats brawl And glass bottles break Loud laughter for only seconds Then silence Beeping breaks the ominous calm And bells on doors intermitant But overall the still is steadfastly unbroken Moonlight and headlights Tires roll through puddles like splashing in the bath tub Strangers dance And children sleep Mom’s worry and Husband’s are just getting home from the office. I wonder if the city is more alive now at two am Than in the masquerade of the hot noon day.
Paris
Paris Empty city streets Waiting for me to break The dark Soggy trees drip, Cold, wet, damp My bones are soaked. Shallow puddles holding your shallow dreams Chilled to my core Trees sway bare in the breeze Windows fogged And steamy roads Whistling through the buildings Brisk, always moving Even through corners of stillness Quiet noise And when trees are dead There is no shade to protect me
Sisters
A loving sister the joy she brings in a brother’s life her presence rings emptiness would shoot throughout a brother’s life without a doubt without a sister there at all
Writer’s Block
People and places are interesting things Hearses and newborns and gold wedding rings They dance, they act, and some even sing Oh what to write? I haven’t a thing Planes and trains and automobiles I could write about them if my writer’s block heals Breakfast and lunch are wonderful meals I could write about dinner if my block ever heals Planets and stars, the moon and the sun I could write about them, it might be some fun I need an idea with which I can run So I can cure this block and get something done When I looked up, I was astonished to find My pen had written on every line I cannot remember, have I lost my mind? This poem I’ve written and for which I pined
