left to my own devices

Some days I write with a thick pencil,
ham fisted in a Big Chief tablet,
barely literate - smudged and smeared,
unwieldy, childish prose.

Every now and again,
I write with a scalpel,
All bloody and pain wrecked -
words excised, still dripping.

On Fridays, I write with a rain gutter,
catching the words as a down pour,
sluicing them in the general direction
of a downspout, wet and soggy.

More often, I write with a plow.
Heavy lifting, dirt worked
in the hot sun, sweaty seeding
hoping for something besides a weed.

Most days, I write with a shovel,
heaving sticky piles of steamy manure,
from one plop
to the other.

On a very rare day,
no matter my device,
everything...
works.

Written for a poetry contest. Kind of missed the mark, but...I was pretty caught up in it and had to submit it to get rid of it! Don't know why but I like it. Maybe someone will 'get' it.

My Whimsy

Gray rust steals over a wrought iron gate.
Unconcerned, dandelion fluff skips across pitted black marble.
I lie on my back and watch white cotton wisps
twirl up and join animal shapes on a lazy stroll across a puffy sky.
Between – droopy birthday balloons roll slack on graying grass.
Their sun bleached ribbon streamers wrap and wind
a once bright pinwheel's leg.
The faded pinwheel spins with whimsical disregard,
It's steel leg buried deep
in the graveyard.

at 5 am on Tuesday morning

Words tumble and jump
Like pongs in a lottery popper
Vying for a spot
on the winning line

the right one still hides
buried beneath the jumble
eluding a greedy grasp

Sorry you are not a winner
crinkle crumble smash
another contribution
destined for the trash

words on a page

dust motes spin
through streaming sunlight

lives rise up
from parchment layers

A whisper of yesterday
takes a breath

Footprints trapped in ink
tap out memories

imprinting
that-which-would-be-forgotten
on today

passages remain
captive...

tomorrow's ending
safely waiting

remembered

as long as there are words
on a page.