“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, January 2, 2016
A morsel of musing
If I were to pinpoint
precisely where and when
it happened
I knew
to follow the line
back to the pole
when I happened upon
a spork in the road.
White on black,
the day as clearly as clouds be,
and plastic albeit,
yet it stopped me, dimeless,
there on my deceased steps,
breath on the line...
In a round-about way, you could say
I was stuck in the smooth palm,
it's well
being surrounded by sharp
tines
to be
deployed in case
the next course
require more-
I am sure, that was the sign
that read
Be ready,
either way.
Image By Jeffqyzt (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Three Sporks.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Gravitas
For every poem I put here, there are four more never shared, around six never written and twenty-seven partially thought out. For every word...

-
1. Of my Soul a street is: Preternatural Pic- abian tricktrickclickflidk-er garner of starfish Picasso...
-
Someone said, the full moon looks larger in the city because of skyscrapers- which said nothing about people feeling smaller, more co...
-
Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...
No comments:
Post a Comment