prose

On the porch (but they don’t wave)

“Look at the clouds,”

he said,

his head tilted back,

and his hand

shading his eyes.

“They’re so white. ”

This didn’t need any explanation,

so none was offered.

We returned our focus

to our drinks

and let the awkwardness

consume us.

It was comforting.

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The rhymers

I have a problem with the rhymers, it

is something in their prose;

it’s a thing to which they won’t admit,

but I think it’s on the nose.


The metric of the meter provides

a rigid cage for them

to push and shove and fit inside

the words to match their whim.


These rules once set and locked

lay out the path ahead

but I see it as creatively blocked

as the rhyme by the nose they are led.


So free verse truly appeals to me,

my own path I must cut and make,

the rhymers say it lacks discipline, see

I think more discipline it takes.

Dessert, desert… whichever one matches

I drove across the mountains,

not for the first time,

but for the first time in a long time. 

As I watched 

the landscape changed 

with the altitude,

then I descended 

back down 

to the other side.

I watched 

as the surroundings 

reverted 

to wilderness;

it seemed both familiar 

and foreign. 

I once haunted 

this half of the state…

reluctantly. 

Now I was coming back,

just for my own entertainment. 

Still, I had to pause 

at a trailer-park

where once lived,

wondering;

“How was it,  I ever sustained myself 

in this miserable little corner 

of the world?”

Children were playing 

where once I worried 

about money, 

paychecks,

bills,

and the day-to-day.

Then I continued

to the hotel I had booked, 

and the concert

that had brought me

east. 

I would go on to have

an awesome night…

but for those kids

(back at the trailer park)

tomorrow 

would just be tomorrow,

but I 

would return 

home. 

How is this 

progress?