dogtrax

The taste of first snow lands on the tip of the tongue; a shout, like we're young

A wind storm drops limbs; light a fire in the hearth of lost memories

Pencils, made of pine and graphite, stretch the landscape to where poems exist

A slight brush of skin in passing; a tender touch in remembering

Sliced, diced and mashed up; sitting in a dish, alone, the turnip turns cold

A mouthpiece of sound contains a song, blown raspy; broken, withered reeds

A stew of letters, all jumbled up together – poetic weather

Four/Four

A set of drums Fast pedal clock click His hands hitting cymbals An intricate rhythm stick

In near perfect balance An intricate rhythm stick In four-four time The drummer never quits

Each note becomes another Drive it home, forward His hands hitting cymbals The beat of feet

The guitar is gone The bass drops out The singer now sits The drummer never quits

a variation on a 4x4 poem

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Voices spill out beneath the door, sound as shafts of light — in escape, shadows wait for more,

for us to linger a little longer, our ears pressed against the wood — if only we could drop beneath the eaves,

maybe then we'd believe

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Dry mouth soil savors these rains, nearly forgotten by brittle Earth —

we were warned, remember, about the flames, the first spark ignites the dark as the monsters came — subsumed by an act of madness, the kind only nature brings

Yet here we were, singing the praise songs again, the clouds dropping gifts up us

the rain the rain the rain

This street is frozen with the sleet – the thin veneer of an angry child

Rhythm, underfoot, a loud (de)composition of fallen, dried leaves