The days open like a smile without kisses, tossing about like the possibilities of a child whose eyes reach the moon in less than a step. The mornings were cool that stole my name giving only half to a finality of sound and others to the scents of boiling lilies But how lucid the summer seems when reflected off your dress. I drink from the same wells as those that kept the shadows that emerged to dry by your feet (of which there is no better offering) And how long since you started for a destination of the cold? the calls of formless birds make you known to the afternoons in a devastating hour of sun you came, arranging each day towards the middle. The wind sometimes reminds itself that nothing changes.
hello old friend. I have to admit I hate this 'poem' for a lot of reasons. The thing that annoys me the most about what i write is that when i read over it i can't read it like i didn't write it. I wish i could look at them like they were put together in a book by a poet i had never heard of so that i would have no bias and be able to tell if i like the writing. that would be very helpful.
hey bud...i hear ya...i usually have the same problem...lately your poetry sounds like you picked random words out of ten different conversations and put them together...they are so abstract...but they always tie in at the end, so whatever you're doing is working...look for something new from me soon...i always appreciate your comments...no one else really seems to know what they are talking about...
