Most days I would try to write a poem; it is a practice, as I suppose is meditation, or smiling, or watching the world go by
Monday, 11 June 2012
A string of burnished beads
With a pastel
Or a palette
Artist's card or canvas
An abstract creation
Of many colours
I opened the door
So slightly
A slit
Upon my simple thoughts
With mellow music
A soft guitar
Singer or a cowboy
Mystic collaborations
Of many others
I pushed the wedge
To edge my mind
Out west
A little firmer
With words
A pencil
A book of papyrus paper
Inkwell
With mottled blotter
A wish list
Dissertation
Of many schemata
Hinges undone
Door removed
To hang
In its place
A string
Of
Burnished beads
This poem is from the collection East of Lincoln Central available now on kindle - click on the text for details