Poetry

Bob, , , 
There is a fire always in the heart,
As bold as apple blossoms 
Free of all poetry. 

Like a gold toothed traipse artist
With tattoos of all the gas giants
And a haircut that reminds one of a snowdrift.

I followed the cosmonaut to the dead end
Where the milkweed and tickseed and goldenrod
Grow and chase dragonflies.

16 thoughts on “Poetry”

  2. I’m looking forward to picking apples both here in Quebec and in mid September when I visit my parents in Milwaukee. If I’m lucky, my mind will be free of thoughts because I’ll be so into the smell of whatever apple orchards smell like. I forget from last year, but I do remember that I liked the smell.

    I thought you meant trapeze artist, one of those daredevils, but love traipse even more, like a stumbling drunk walking home when some spontaneous verse hits him like your poem here, “I followed the cosmonaut to the dead end.” I love that line…..like all we do is useless, leads nowhere, but we should do it anyway…devoted Zen Monks meditating who after a few months of meditating say screw it and get drunk one night.

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    1. I came across traipsing in Don Quixote. Sancho would often complain when he was hungry (which was often) that he was sick of traipsing all over the countryside with no food. I agree about the apple orchards. That such a wonderful smell. Especially if there is a nip in the air. I’m glad you liked this one. Thanks!

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  5. Hey, thought you might like this—I’m hosting a low-key poetry contest, and it’s a bit of a mystery. I think your style would be perfect for it. Want to join in and see where your words can take you?

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