Friday, December 13, 2013

Dabbling in Poetry

It's something I've done forever. For some reason, it allows me to express my feelings like nothing else can. And so once in a while, a poem is born in the pages of my journal or on an unsuspecting napkin from the glove compartment. Here are a couple from this year.

Summer

Roses are violet
Bluebells are singing
Sunshine is raining
And poppies are singing



The Door

A house.
A door.
Sealed,
And locked
Besides.

Nobody
Can get in.

Rain falls
Drops touch the door,
Plink off.

Until
A drop
Here and There
Sinks in,
Penetrating
In small and
     simple
Ways.

Rain beats hard,
Turns to pellets
Of Hell,
Pelting on the lock
Until
     at last
It is loosed.

Who is there?
One I call
Friend

The door opens.
One final, flooding
Drop,
A tear,
From inside its own Dwelling Place
Seeps
Out

Once hard
As hardened steel,
Now soft,
Porous.

The door
Does not
Creak.

The lock,
Gone.
Some say taken
By a peddler.

The sun
Thumps
Rhythmically
Down
Shooting
Bursts
Of yellow
Light

And all who enter
Feel
The beauty there.