Portrait of the Poet

As night’s new choreographed clouds

Roll in and over me

I’m sitting, again,

Whole but alone again

In borrowed skin

Beneath a tree that struggles

To fit beneath the sky.

Between a warm metal heron and

A broken kitchen chair leg

I’m stabbing craziness onto

Poorly seen, second use paper

By stuttering light of gutter candles

With stubborn fingers and a

Well-chewed crayon stub.

Not everything has changed.

Not everything needs to.


2 thoughts on “Portrait of the Poet

  1. Chatty Owl says:

    Last two lines.. Seriously, i have a thing for great endings and im always stunned to read your words.
    Its mesmerising.

    • beeseeker says:

      What a lovely compliment; thanks very much.
      It isn’t something I have thought about consciously, but now you have mentioned it, yes … I guess I believe in strong endings.
      And I always like reading poems myself (or stories for that matter) that leave something to think about.

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