Looking Up...

Delicate clouds hang,

Suspended animation,

Shadows on concrete

I Cannot Write A Poem

When I sit down to write a poem,
The words come tumbling down my pen and
Arrange themselves on the paper.
But not today.
When I step out my door,
Prejudices hit me with a force and
Attack my mind with animosity.
But not today.
When I sing a lullaby,
The floating wraith of sleep is driven away and
Advances on slumber as predator on prey.
But not today.
When I aim to love,
The emotion evades me and
Apathy assembles as I watch the world burn.
But not today.



I am not sure I like this poem..... any improvement thoughts?

Song of Day and Night

O'er the lip of hollow's hill,

The moon pulling up sun by a spider's web,

Hefting day over her shoulder,

She sinks under the horizon,

Entangling the stars in her black hair,

Slipping into the realm of stars and white luminosity

Giving up the world to sun's heat.

Does anyone have any suggestions on how to make this poem better?

The Puppeteer

Wind blows the year around

in a circle.

Wind catches us moving too fast

and pulls us back,

Moving cautious, urges forward.

Breeze in Spring and Summer,

Force for the falling and the slow rising.

Wind chasing its tail,

Ruffling the leaves as a mother to a small child with a new discovery held in the hand.

Dancing of the shadows as the puppeteer flits on

to another tree, to a different audience, or to none at all.

An Ode to Drying Laundry

T-shirts hang by their tails,

Dyes blown by March wind,

Daffodils flit nearby, lending their aroma,

Clothes, chased by their shadows,

With each waft detergent slips away,

Replaced,green grass, dogwood,

Laundry at night, moon infusing,

Shadows hang, almost dry,

Dawn- folded and baskested,

Closed drwaers or draped onto bodies,

Fated to be washed again,

And hung out to dry in the daffodil breeze.

Ode to a Blank Canvas

Little grid ridges, waiting for fictional memories of painter,
Winged desire realized, blunt accusation thrust,
"Click" paintbrush
lowered
Flecks of light shimmer, stranded on dewy skin,
Blank, free to write upon the memory space
Rickety stool, extension of self,
Paintbrush
Slide over canvas, mandarin orange , flower,
Heart
Lonely organ, empty , sad truth,
All gone
only
blank
s c e n e

Beckoning The Rain

Bow to the fair West, Water will come,
Do you hear wind a blowing?
Air has heard,
Do you feel ground opening?
Earth is prepared,
Do you feel the cold?
Fire has subsided,
Water is coming,

Others wait in silence,
Energy full of pleas and blessings fly from groups,
Water is coming,
Those who listen hear a rumble,
Their hair and robes plaster to moist skin

Water has come, and some wish it to stop,
But not those that know Earth,
For roots rejoice,

We hear them