Of August
By the window,
The wind
Fills the room with
The smell of rain.
And the clever words of the poets
Throw knives at the wall.
And the taxi cabs are now fairy tales
Washed ashore by UFOs.
Frivolous fails when
It is nothing at all,
So, give us something,
If only a broken August, when it
Speaks at all. Darkness up
On its hind legs welcomes you home.
Of uncertain hands
That hold the earth,
Fold dreams into space.
In the end,
The poet works in lines,
Not in what they mean.
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naïve haircuts 
I like the way you ease us into the surrealism before we take off in the fairy-tale taxi cabs with the darkness rearing on its hind legs …. Wow!!
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Thanks John! I guess I can’t help but put that surrealism in there. Glad you liked it!
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As ever, your poetry does something for my head. I think it’s like what yoga does for some people – body and mind. It’s calming, extending, surprising, beautiful.
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Thank you Worms! Thank you for the kind words, and I’m very happy you think so.
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Fantastic. I love the last stanza, especially. Well done!
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Thank you!
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“The poet works in lines”
Well, these two are perfect:
Frivolous fails when
It is nothing at all
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Thanks Andy! Glad to hear from you again.
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Love your style! Great imagery!!!
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Thank you so much!
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