I find such comfort
Amongst the simple things
Words which mean nothing
Until strung together like
Beads on thoughts string
And then worn gaily
Complimenting even the dourest
Of days bringing color
I find such comfort
Amongst the simple things
Words which mean nothing
Until strung together like
Beads on thoughts string
And then worn gaily
Complimenting even the dourest
Of days bringing color
Sometimes hermit sometimes shaman
Oftentimes swimmer frequently bather
Always thinking never knowing
I undress each day
And dip myself in
Words languid pond or
Witness dawns day of
Images and imagination conjuring
Spirits of my past
And my present into
These things called poems
Things change they shift
Either those things abutting
Them adjust or break
They absorb or perish
Just like the sand
Is to the sea
We must understand that
Something is really nothing
Without those things surrounding
It and defining it
I don’t think that
If I write ten
Thousand or a hundred
Ten thousand of poems
Will I ever expunge
The weight of my
Broken heart and only
Upon my own death
Will I at last
Be free and finally
Find loves comfort modicum
And like a prairie
Oak I see you
Full of promising comfort
Standing there far off
A tower of plain
Providing me my respite
From the heat of
Life from the rain
Of despair and the
Cold of my loneliness
Sometimes laying at others
Shading once or twice
Huddling offering me safety
Leaving you standing there
I do know that
Others also find their
Place with you and
I am but temporary
But for now and
Until I am ready
With you beneath you
I shall stay here