The joy of poetry

The ancient eavesdropper

clouds hover
above my
head —
with a chance
of poems.

I am a wallflower
blooming in the corner —
dancing with invisible

Stars falling
without end —
leaves drifting
from dendritic
constellations —
castaways of a
cosmic autumn.

Lulled to sleep
by rain tap dancing
on the windowpane.

sap scent
sticks to
my lungs —
each lobe
the branch
of a tree
inside me —
why I

Gentle autumn breeze
maple trees whispering
secret canopy conversations.

The only certainty 
I know resides in
the now.

Even if our words
are never read —
the joy of poetry
remains to console
the creative soul —
we write for an
audience of one.

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The ancient eavesdropper

the finish line —
an invisible tape
I could not break —

Blind as an earthworm —
fumbling on the ground —
searching for my contact lens.

The muffled
screams of
fading leaves
before the fall —
color drained
from extremities —
branches crack
like white knuckles.

Above the freeway
a flock of geese
fly against traffic.

From a drip
to a downpour
my spastic muse.

The holes
in my logic —
spaces between
these words —
uncertainty hangs
without a period

Sideways rain
leaves skitter
across the street
& stick to windows
like autumnal

New bird feeder
an extra hour of treats
for passing beaks.

canopies —
shoulders with
giant trees —
the towering
darkness of
my dreams.

In the slipstream
of unconsciousness
I catch myself
from falling awake.

This heart flutters
inside the birdcage
of my chest —
invisible wings

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