My poor guitar’s in need of strumming.
My morning poem’s not forthcoming.
Seems a house weighs on my brain.
Some might say that I’m insane.
But in the hills where trees abound,
behind a stone wall my paradise found.
A storied life I’m sure it’s had.
The next chapter’s mine and I’m glad.
Its life began in seventeen twenty.
Surely there are creaks and drafts aplenty.
It’s quite unusual, just one of a few.
It’s also quite large, it’s almost two.
Are there spirits? I don’t know.
But if there are I’m sure they’ll show.
And if there’s not that’s OK.
Maybe I’ll be one someday.
By day distracted with thoughts of you.
By night distracted with the work I do.
My sleep’s not good and diet worse.
I think exercise sounds like a curse.
Dreams bring solace asleep or awake.
Love is felt when your hand I take.
Satisfaction overwhelms when we kiss.
Our moments together are always bliss.
The past is gone, no time for blame.
With pen in hand this mind I’ll tame.
The future’s calling clear and loud.
My heart is certain, my heads in a cloud.
The day ahead leaves little choice.
Tomorrows together we’ll rejoice.
For it is you that I’m profoundly attracted.
I’d finish this poem but now I’m distracted.
Distractible and Chair
Life is distracting
when hours and hours required
Taking a backseat
is often bumpy, but not
in a limousine.
When writing’s your path
take all the forks you can get
and ignore the knives.
Pick’s in hand, sticks in mind,
harps guide in words I find.
Inspiration meets, greets and fleets.
Hearts feel souls on streets.
Vibrations good, silence strange.
Eyes flicker, scenes change.
A world of waves: hellos, goodbyes.
Exuberance crashes laughs with cries.
Future’s run forward, stepping away.
Winnings cost, losses sway.
Pencil’s sharp to fill the gray.
F M, I’ll beat another day.
Love is an abstract.
Feelings flutter to distract.
Time passes to parts unknown.
Thoughts of another, ego’s grown.
It’s as undefinable as an alien code.
Like a funky beat to a Shakespearean ode.
Or a Rembrandt with a Picasso tone.
In love lines blurred but never alone.
To write is to be
always distracted but not
distracted by it