image borrowed from bing
My page was too white
My ink was too thin
The day wouldn’t write
What the night penciled in.
I am moved by broken flower stems, by
the patina pock-marking all the iron that
surrounds us, abandoned machinery, chipped
and bent gears lying in fat precarious piles
in dark corners, wood beautifully aged by weather
on those east/west walls facing direct sunlight,
hand-hewn rail fences twisted like arthritic limbs,
with deep verdant moss adorning tops & corners;
but my mere words lack any substantial bite;
my page was too white.
I do capture images with my mechanical lens
that later might arouse my slumbering poetics;
classic hood ornaments, jets, rockets, & archers,
toothy or snarling chrome grilles, wide white wall
tires, moon hubcaps, torn leather seat covers,
faded brand names on some old cans of tin,
Buck Rogers, Howdy Doody, & Gene Autry
action toys, and painted metal lunch boxes;
very hard to imprison with words meant to win;
my ink was too thin.
I love to stoop and peer into steel-ribbed culverts,
hoping to greet another pair of eyes in the shadows,
reading aloud the city and year that certain foundries
cast on manhole covers and fire hydrants, staring
lovingly at every kind of window and door, all different
styles, colors, materials; different sizes & height;
wandering the harbors, marveling at the thick ropes
that tether the ships & boats, while always searching
the motley skies for those wings of might
the day wouldn’t write.
Artist, performer, photographer, & poet--
all sweet monikers I proudly wear while
processing this marvelous world through
my personal filters, describing the tastes,
sharing the emotions, creating the tableaus
before revealing who actually was the assassin;
still pleased that others appear interested in
my unique views, perspective, & compositions,
while never fearing the specter of oblivion--
what the night penciled in.
Posted over on dVerse Poets FFA
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