I remembered what I was going to say

There was a moment that dripped like a faucet
held back from the torrent by a hack of black tape
but the black tape could not hold the wet syllables
at bay within this white chipped porcelain heaven.

Then I remembered the cause of the chipping now-
a mad little drummer with aluminum practice sticks
driving a whiskey fueled paradiddle into the night
until the sleek white porcelain could take no more.

And the chipping became a shattering crescendo
where I found my god as we wrestled to the floor.

Looking for Leonids

In a dark chill as Sunday ends one Saturday evening
again, still black eyes turn domeward, hope and wait
for that brief grace streak of frozen ice crossing night.

In a short dream galaxy swirled in gold expositions ah,
bright red and pale green fireworks in clear cool focus
as a tight sit on a park bench saw new stars being born.

Laughing unraveled, not even a single streak was found.

A Poem is Never Done

A poem is never done nor is it created
because every poem is an imperfect copy
of the one poem that only always echoes
just beyond the reach of your shadow.

Silly, isn't it?

Everything is a poem and the poem is always nothing.

Vowels carry melody, consonants are drums
and rhythm and melody can fascinate indeed.

But if you really need a pentameter, listen to your heart.

Copper Burns Green

Copper burns green in the east sometimes at sundown
when even clouds are gray and the west glows faintly
from a biting October orange of harsh northern wind.

Walks built of tall boards by whiskey grayed whiskers,
mean tossed by sandy salt into matchstick grizzly piles,
are now cross crushed by hand me down habits of dune.

What went out gloaming at low tide on a glowing strand
could never discern ripples on sky from ripples on sand.