Poetry
The tiniest of stories.
Missing Words
It’s bedtime, but, I’m still pushing
dark room, light of the monitor shining
at the keyboard
With fiction and fantasy I constantly toy
to create a single working world
in my medieval page-turner,
content slipping, sliding,
or hiding the scope of mind.
​
In time I lose grasp of words running away,
like slimy spaghetti scooped with a spoon.
​
progress comes every day
but it’s an unknown bridge
with its rickety row of planks.
I wrote it on feelings. caged.
something inside of me,
the story is held for a time.
It flows, some would think,
I freeze, fingers stutter
still and quiet tonight
often, the unfortunate case.
​
little eaten
Maybe this decreased my vocabulary-
What was that word I needed-
a child is taken forcefully away
Kidnapping, that was what I meant to say,
​
Or, perhaps a less brutal form.
This word has expanded reach
To where I can’t see anything else-
Straighten up!–give me a second–focus!
It’ll get better pretty soon
One word at a time, key after
As the Rooster Crows
I was outside–surely years ago
Walking or skipping around
Heading toward the barn
A distracted child
Start stop, looking
at colors all around.
Into the green barn I go
laughing, two pigs squealing
Then everything wakes up.
Feed–a perfect calmer
Animals know it’s time,
Hungry things
I can hear it in the cries
of the young animals.
I go about with the daily feeding.
The pigs are first,
Continuing to the chickens,
(they are simple, easy animals
to feed and to water.
​
Just fill the pan and always
eggs, eggs),
I almost missed
when you sat still on your nest
an egg or two
(is this intentional?
hiding?)–almost worked,
Then to the dogs and cats
Splendid,
Lastly the cows
Daddy helps me with this.
The farm quiets after it’s fed.