when light creeps too slowly near dawn
almost awake dreams flit through sleep
too far from the surface to weep
sadness lingers even though gone
Tag Archives: Poetry
to dance with time
to squander inept without words
meters worth of rhymes with four feet
counted lines unaligned too neat
meanings too vain to be assured
too vain to be assured meanings
waltz to a double-time foxtrot
unaware their two left feet fought
semantic wars with tired schemings
with tired schemings semantic wars
roared thoughtless groaning through the night
weeping—words, we need words for light
to fill our poems’ verse with more
four lines groping through studied rhyme
a quatrain forced to dance with time
Four Lines
chaos yawns mayhem swirls holy
dizzily dazzled color hue tone
sliding it shifts who is alone
near dawn when light creeps too slowly
Four Lines
cracks what’s waiting for you in them
slim horizontal deeps that creep
behind and under feet they seep
yawning chaos holy mayhem
Four Lines
no middle chatter— max to max
millions today tomorrow one
climb for excess slide back to none
what’s waiting for you in the cracks
Four Lines
only white and the dark, just two
stages, one follows the other
just as father follows mother
the pattern pierces me clean through
Four Lines
leaves more shadow— contrast more stark
light and dark, opposites, two poles
there’s no room for grey in black holes
just two— only white and the dark
Four Lines
unfathomable size and dark
light sparks blinks then dissolves from sight
one point pricking holes through the night
leaves more shadow contrast more stark
River rafting. What a cat!
Four Lines
Love of splash in shady corners
drives the lone graffiti artist
to spray graphics bold and shortest
heeding neither law nor orders.Heeding neither orders nor law
an artist paints on walls plain bare
round-bellied letters with wild hair
declare where I do dare to draw.When I dare to draw or paint rhymes
words and lines dance free in the air
I give them weight all they can bear
but it’s not my weight nor my times.Not my times nor even my weight
lie under the rhyme and the sound
I dig through the lost and not found
for the one way to box my freight.For the one way to freight my box
leads me onto old crooked roads
of sound, only sounds are the loads
that hold the tock of my rhyme’s clock.
Lynne
the crafty sisters 