where

you wonder where

the poems have gone

and what you need to do

to being them back

you thought, a new lover

would fire up the spirit

and make the words flow

but the right one failed to appear

and apparently buying shoes

was not what was needed to

tempt the poetry muse

to return from her

extended vacation

so you think

just maybe

in Paris...

just a test

you've awakened in another
one of those moods,
feeling pain that is
somewhere off in
the distance.
ghosts of dreams
haunt your
bleary morning vision,
not remembered
but lapsing vaguely
over into reality.
was that plane about
to run out of fuel
two miles short
of the runway again,
or were there dark, malicious
men with hidden weapons
lurking in the doorway?
you feel disconnected
from both body and mind,
as if your life
is being swept into a corner
or under a convenient rug.
you are still breathing in and out,
taking up space,
grasping at something
that is just out of reach.

right here

seen enough of
the world now
to know
nothing's
there that
isn't here
everything i've
searched for
i already have
hiding right inside
just couldn't find it
until i stopped
looking

blue wonders

you wake in
a dreamland
where everything's
blue
a blue moon
sits high in
a midnight blue
sky
a sprinkling of
frost twinkles
blue underfoot
and although you
have no mirror to
confirm your
suspicion
you fear the tip
of your nose's
gone blue
from the cold
despite the oddity
of this world
turned blue
you feel quite at
home here
and decide to
remain
just then you
are jolted
awake once again
this time
in surroundings
where the
colors are right
lacking that
mystically magic
blue light

nod

you shake your
head
when you say
yes.
is that
some kind of
body language
dyslexia?
uncertainty, indecision,
a deep rooted desire
to avoid conformity?
just promise one thing.
when you finally
get around to saying
yes to me,
nod.

sprout

somewhere
wrapped deep below
many layers
of muck and mire
lies a kernel
that longs to sprout
and shoot up out
of the earth
reaching for the sun
bearing fruit
but so many
forces act to
hold it captive
the cold of winter
the lack of rain
being told, time and again
you can't, don't try
too small, too weak
too young, too old
and yet still
that small hidden
seed vibrates
with the desire
to germinate
to create something
that is more
than what it is
and then finally
it finds release
as it spills from
the tip of my
pen

immunity

we live as if
we were immune
to extinction
though evidence indicates
the opposite to be true
with traces of all those
who came before
trilobites
dinosaurs
cavemen
bones lying buried
beneath our feet
and when our end comes
will it be like the beginning
with a bang
or perhaps a plague
or pestilence
will wipe our slate clean
will a quartet of horsemen
be involved
in any way
or will we just dwindle down
leaving
one at a time
perhaps starved of light
as our sun grows cold
and when time has passed
and we too lie buried
deep below the surface
will we be diamonds
will we be the fuel
that propels our
replacements
toward their own
doom