the reeds
stand like white refugees
bending beneath the frost.

Composing the Soul

I pull out my day
and whip it open.
I shake off any doubt and fear
and hang it out to catch
the light of holy rays.
I stand back to look and ponder,
and when it's dry and warm,
I slowly take it down.
I fold--
      I kneel,
I fold
      my hands
I praise
      and put away.

little bird
darts
    field       branch

branch
            fence.

The Owl

I am an owl
cozied down among feathers and fluff,
dull--
eyes lazily peeking
at the movement of the world.
In stillness,
the old bird in my mind
changes the movement into music--
pattern and points.
I understand
and fly different at night.

I actually seriously dislike free-style poetry much of the time. But it's like a siren that just keeps calling you. Ah, well. I suppose every writer can do a free-style now and then.

Barty

Barty, the little-winged dragon
would sit in his cave and just pout.
Poor little-winged dragon was miffed,
at the others flying about.
Well, he grumped and he snooted, and snorted,
he mused on his smoldering ire--
he got so caught up in his cranky
he set his own tail on fire.

This was a response to an "assignment" from a fun book I'm reading. It's a nursery rhyme, in case you couldn't tell. Not the most mature piece I've done, but I like it!

the snow cuddles into the red leaf

the rain
on the street lamp
smears the light.