in rivers of right they spawn

eggs already torn and bent

that grow deprived of dawn

to salve and heal their rent

and battered by a rusty flail

to a state not unlike trance

a polka spinning them pale

to a hapless agony of dance

chalking symbols onto slate

a scratch makes evil mute,

silent observances of hate

doomed flora lacking root

sometimes they...

Read and leave comments (0)

Sometimes, inspiration and imagination have strange effects.

De Jeune

Swallows dive, swoon

like wind-swayed ink drops

down, and beyond the light:

swallowed by the sky,

flown blue, over

road-birds – honed

by simple flight.

Like arrows in Canada

in thunderhead afternoons:

clouds rolling, rutting hinds

in migration, pounding sand-trails,

Read and leave comments (0)