bloomday

today
i'm not much more
than a simple white flower
destined to be picked
and sniffed
touched and fondled
torn apart a bit.
but appreciated
for my delicate
scent
all the same.

the fields

Morning dew on gold summer grass scent.
We're settled in for the day,
by the whispering creek.
Slightly aware
of country sounds on the edge of this,
our guitar escape.
Not far from home
but far enough to feel we're alone.
A part of you is still there, I'm sure.
Looking up to clear blue sky,
sipping morning coffee
and strumming away,
while I fill my tattered notebook with the moment.

sunny days

It must be written in the cosmos somewhere;
seems every writer I know
has been bitten by the winter
blues block.

You would think melancholy souls like mine
would be inspired by cold hard weather...
Alas, it's the sun that makes me
want to fly off,
thereby reminding me of all
I want to vent and repent.

~a

esoteric rest

There may not be laughter tonight.
No trickles of glee,
no short sighted promises
or sneak away corner encounters.

Time to shun prying eyes
no matter the close proximity
they wish for or think they
are so entitled.

Tired tears are soaking
the window panes.
Battered blues looking south,
yearning
for rain.

There is a drought in these parts
and slowly,
she is turning to ash.