Pushed too far to be patient
Stretched too taut to be kind
Wrung too dry to be social
Hedged too close to be blind
Depression too deep to be active
Connections too many to be free
Compassion too spent to be trusted
Obligations enough to be
Tag Archives: Poem
Too Enough
A Dozen, a Multitude, a Score
A dozen, a multitude, a score –
The paths stretch forward, back, beyond.
First steps so clear, so precise.
Too quickly, the paths turn and twist:
The steps fade, blur, and obscure,
Leaving the path’s distant end
In dark, unsettled uncertainty.
Catch Up: An Exercise in Silliness
SC: [sing-songy]
Catch up, ketchup, caught –
A single line of thought.
So easily squished, so easily dead.
Are you sure I can’t just read instead?
IC: What is that even about? Ketchup?
SC: Don’t judge!
Old Ears
From a worn chair in a dim, dusty room,
Old ears listen for a familiar tread:
The fast, heavy clicks of heels,
Focused and fast in a no-nonsense drive
From home to work and back again.
But, no. A breath. That tread was from then.
Tired eyes close. Then wait for the beat,
The pitter-patter of dainty feet that
Jump and flutter down the stairs
To head to school or outside to play.
No. Those feet grew. They moved away.
A sigh. A breath. A weary shake.
And the head turns for a slower step,
Careful and reliable in sturdy shoes,
Always there, each year, each hour and day.
And so in the silence the old ears stay.
Elements of Everyone
A hundred subtle vowel and
Consonant changes – inflections that
Challenge the ear of strangers with
Elements of everyone you know:
Nanoscale bits of people absorbed
Through life and reflected back.
The Poetry Store
“Oh, no!” she cried, tears in her eyes,
“The poetry store is dark inside!
The shelves are empty – the rhymes are gone!
No books! No schemes! No driving song
Of meters pushing each word on.
This cannot be! This is a crime –
To take poetry but leave us time!
Who would bury us with such woes
As to live and die with only prose?”
The Writer Writes On
The writer writes on
As reading fades away –
Only letters and words,
All jumbled and misplaced,
Remain in a pile
Of scattered fragments
Like clues to what once was.
To be interpreted,
Not read or said,
A language bleeding out
Until it evolves – or finally
Lies dead. A memory,
Some strange hallucination
Inside the writer’s head.
twytte 