poems and ponderings
Just a homeless poet
Not homeless due to poetry
Not a poet due to lacking a home
I would choose poetry over a home
If it came to that
So maybe they are related.
I would sleep in the street
If I had a pen and paper
To write
And understand the perfect poem.
One that sets spirits to flight
Or brings adventures to wounded souls.
There is no perfect
There is only the intention.
—V V V—
Winter trees
Crows for decoration
—
Some days
The fluorescent sun
Burns all
The colors pale
^^^
Found:
Fragment of asemic poetry
******
Good poetry and good art are not cynical.
+++++++
Currently…
I am currently living in a motel.
Cramped with two of us and a dog in less than 300 sq. ft.
But, for now, I can afford this.
I miss the place we had to leave:
The high desert, out at the edge of town.
The coyotes and roadrunners,
The rabbits and birds.
I have to forgive myself for this loss.
I need to find a way back to nature.
The city feels, not dangerous,
But deadly.
This place feels like a prison.
Writing is my solace and my escape.