triad

ripe fruit

poems appear in my mind
like ripe fruit on a tree
near, but out of reach

ah, to muster the gumption
to climb the fence
and traipse through thicket
to pick them

wet words

sometimes my mind is a desert landscape
and  thoughts are like bleached bones in the sand
then suddenly the words seem to fall like rain
from the sky –  a trickle, then a downpour and I’m
frantically throwing out buckets to catch them,
knowing the dry spell may soon return

ball point

a poem  may be like
the stubborn ball point pen that
refuses to leave a mark

I must scratch around in circles
before the ink will flow
don’t think – just write