Wordless Wednesday (09/02/15)

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Infinite cornfield

Originally posted on The ancient eavesdropper:

Infinite cornfield

Rows of corn
press their ears
to the sun —
stretching
forever towards
the horizon.

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Sunbled to bed

Originally posted on The ancient eavesdropper:

A slice in the sky at dusk,

red bleeding from bluish-gray,

golden orange descending into the sea.

Colors gush and coagulate, breathe and retire.

Calm, steady winds clear the cloudy ceiling higher,

as the moon forms a scab in the night –

its eery yellow beams stab stars in black cloth.

The nocturnal stage is set for crickets,

chorus frogs, bats and moths 

whose amplified sounds do little to help

the insomniac’s cause.

Stillness finally comforts the weary,

head resting on the pillow,

tired eyelids heavy,

sealed shut – 

healing dreams,

subconscious clot.

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Brainstorm

Originally posted on The ancient eavesdropper:

Struck by
a thought,
I heard the
silent thunder clap
from my brainstorm.
As a rumble of
words neared,
I drew poetic
courage.

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Weekly Photo Challenge: From Every Angle

This gallery contains 11 photos.

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Wordless Wednesday (08/26/15)

WW_20150826_Marigolds

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Peanut Gallery

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A crayfish laid to rest
in a bedrock grave
the detritivore’s decay
sustains the living.

1-1-11892118_10100544991080536_4326144805210092407_n

Opportunists
with sharp elbows
teasel 

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Bedrock facade
washboard sheets
pocketful of secrets.

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Trees
caught
behind
a smokescreen —
phantom
limbs
burning
under
a bloodshot 
sun.

Over a tranquil stream
the chatter of two kingfishers
territorial dispute.

Never
      a
             straight
         line
               as
        the
                 crow
                          flies

A
spider
spins its
web —
intricate
strands
dance —
with each
passing
breeze.

Next to my feet
a sleeping dog twitches
canine dreams.

1-IMG_5462

Trees
wave
their
branches
like
batons —
conducting
a
symphony
of
clouds
&
birds.

The old windmill
with arthritic blades
tilts in vain.

Fluttering 
into my
l
i
n
e
of sight —
the
eye-like
       s
   t       p
       o
on a butterfly’s
wings —
staring back
at me.

Words
d
r
o
p
like
discarded
shells
from
the
peanut
gallery
of
my
mind —
egging
me on to
write
my finest
lines.

My teeth sink into
a blushing nectarine —
taste buds awash
in an embarrassment
of flavors.

When we stop
holding back —
& start living
the life we were
meant to live —
every risk
is a golden
opportunity.

They say
you can’t make
a living as a poet —
that’s only a half truth —
you can make poetry
your life.

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