Yesterday

Yesterday the importance
of telling you something
was the only thing on my mind.

It was important
because I knew you
wanted to listen.

What we talked about
reminded me of sweet
apple pie and hot tea.

If we didn't speak
then our eyes would
complete our sentences.

As I was walking
listening to the rain
a single drop
caught my eyelash
and fell.
The trees around me
shimmered so,
with a warmth that
comes from depth of feeling.

I sat down to write a poem once.
I didn't know what it would be.
I shouldn't try to use words more than once,
but failed at that miserably.
So here I sit to write some verse,
not knowing how it will end.
Will it come out, as if rehearsed?
Or as the overflow of inspiration?
Despite my efforts trying not to write,
a poem has emerged. It has life.

Vague River

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The sidewalks are cleaning up spattered water droplets.

I hang my arm out of the window and wave.

The autumn wind pricks my bare hand.

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I notice a hat being walked by a man across the street.

I wave at him on the inside, contemplating the silliness.

The skies groan as they awake from a restless night.

A salesman walks door to door selling rejections.

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An inkwell spills over with forgotten words,

upon an empty desk, in a derelict room.

I sit in a café eating a doughnut

to improve my memory.

The yellow-striped kitty urges me to finish my mocha.

I relax in the chair and smile.

The maítre d’ glides over to me to refill my

coffee, even though I don’t want any more.

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The man on a park bench stares into his mind.

The chessboard before him stands filled,

he is trying to beat himself.

Does he always win, or lose?

Children walk down the street holding

crinkly balloons of silver bovines.

Peanut shells litter the sidewalk beneath their feet.

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The best dressed people in town, walk down the street

wearing plastic flowers bought at a 5 & 10 store.

I want to laugh at them, until I realize

I’m wearing a wilted boutonniere.

I pause ask them where they got the plastic flowers.

They don’ reply but repeat the word

“Fashion”

over and over, their eyes a milky cast

walking past me oblivious to my question.

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I am amused as I see a dog chasing

a bag, its handles carried by the wind.

The scent of warm jelly is wafting from a window

where nothing is baking.

The street lamps mark off the distance as I

travel across town.

The big man who prints the newspaper isn’t interested

in my life because it’s not sensational.

I pause and dwell on the irony of the mundane,

which the big man assumes is sensational.

He should get out more.

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The sky is purpling overhead.

I still haven’t found my half twenty-third cardboard burger.

The essence of the word YELLOW

spreads down the street in electricity.

Twittering trails of frantic people spill out of the doors.

The cars bulge to capacity with their conversations.

I travel homeward, words rattling the ear buds,

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At the Café

As I sit at the warm café,

the one that’s down beside the sea,

and wait for the coming day.

I feel the heat in the grey

cup, that I purchased for a fee,

as I sit at the warm café.

I see others who would stray

into this room for hot coffee,

and wait for the coming day.

On the tables their cups would lay,

waiters picked them up absently,

as I sit at the warm café.

The clouds outside are shades of grey

which will unleash the torrential sea

and wait for the coming day.

On my table there’s a wilted bouquet

the scents as varied as potpourri,

as I sit at the warm café

and wait for the coming day.