G a s t r o l i t h s
(small stones swallowed by a bird, reptile, or fish, to aid digestion in the gizzard)
I asked the world what it meant. Too many answers to sort it out.
I settle for less. Spirit broke. Past or present tense?
I walked across town. But that was just a little north of the same.
The rising sun. A mile is farther than it seems. Breath proceeds me by a step.
I lived with the poor. Fished a lost spoon out of the trash.
I had to give it up. Like creation, it took more than a day.
Dime a dance? Get real! It costs more than that!
I write poems. Who reads? Who cares? Good news.
It doesn’t really matter after all. Liberty.
I’m less flamboyant than you. Fewer feathers to buy.
I didn’t become bi-sexual. But I thought about it.
Joan Baez smiled at me. No, at the grocery. Yes, sugar’s fine.
I thought about loving you. I did. Honestly. You?
Once counted time for sixty seconds. The same, afterwards.
Rabbits make lovely stones. Or rub together to start a fire.
Poppies radiate the summer! Moles, not so much.
Be generous. To a fault-line, not too close.
Gastroliths are stones where you don’t expect them.
Wearing a bright red dress, that really helps. Depending of course.
You again? When you meet that person, you’ve been around.
Does entropy mean stars inside your eyes get closer to me?
Someone raises a glass, laughs. Someone somewhere dies.
Not a contradiction, just lots and lots of meanings here.
When my car don’t work, the world gets smaller. Also, more handy.
When the dead shark washed up, one man was brave enough!
One alone is never enough. She was right. And only a child.
Wisdom comes on small padded feet. Easy to scare away. Or maybe it lands right on your face! Either way.
Gathered friends when awake. Walking the labyrinth alone.
The best way to write a poem is not to write. Listen.
Hands will do all you ask of them. Yet they have a mind of their own.
Bees are more friendly than you think. But purposeful. You be too.
If you trust a thread, it will find an eye all by itself!
She twirled hidden thoughts like fingertips in the rain. Sparks came flying out.
After-hours in the park. Trying not to be discovered. But why was I the same with you?
Snow would come later, but we were there first. Warm impressions in the grass.
A smile no pocket could keep. Burn holes attest. My change falls out.
Harvesting seeds from dried flowers. Many fall to the ground.
Once asked Uncle to step out of the camera’s view. Things.
Now I can’t stand making peopleless photographs.
Too ill even to finish the soup you made for me. The best, it was. You found that hard to believe. But sincerity finished the bowl.