aspiring poet working on his first chapbook of poetry...
lurking in the firs above dining decorum springtime sparrowing
By Gerry Thibeault2 months ago in Poets
shy smiles I redden blushing on the edges of a flowering pith
condensation forms skin of a fresh red apple i’m just not this one
Silence is not always a want or a need but more a way of life—lately, I have wondered about romance, the grace in how a ship changes direction. How from
You sneak in from the pond at a sliver of amber early morning. A thin crack separating earth from sky. Drop a dead heron on the floor, a limp rope for a neck,
traverse across snow sinters track into presence the drum of a heart
thin scent of pollen something much bigger than hope swaying clear ethos
minds wet heavy snow weight on a bed of crocus coin it catharsis
Sure, it’s true, —the coach is not always the best player but it’s a team sport anyways. The game changes, the power shifts
I guess it could be looked at as art. Cluttered messages hung with tape and tacks. Some are thoughtful with tear away tabs,
I Feel I Am Ageing in Earth Years With all its windows reflecting, Sameness gawks at what is left of self on the edge of a farm.
single cut flower warmed with its own breath hangs free ghost feet within reach
