wet brushes

wet brushes
 
open palms
 
walking beside reveals grey to grey
eyes drinking rain, one answer to thirst
 
color undresses, a falling cloud
 
robin’s egg blue, witness feathers
above canvas line-of-sight, on my cheek
 
standing in glass, water
 
dried paint becomes memory
laying down, here’s one stain
 
legs measure first day fog
begin to swim,
 
although you’d think, uphill
 
how do the handles lean?
toward, or away from you
 
bristles splayed arms wide
 
 
neil reid © 2014 january
 

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a storm about four in the morning

a storm about four in the morning
 
indivisible from the shell of our sleeping house.
 
picasso windows shy to reveal their version
of night rain’s residue.
 
invisible hooves finding roof.  imagination
swaying neighbor trees.
 
my slight ears witness from a universe
far, dry, motionless, sheltered within.
 
one desire craves tea, blind.
waits the threshold, forgotten,
 
behind.
 

 
 
neil reid © 2014 january
 
I suppose. has it been a million years?, so gotta make a new category, “bad poems”, just for me. and the horse is about how high did you say? but it would have been 100 this year if William Stafford was yet with us here. worth remembering. worth even writing bad poems, so here. ~neil

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