poetic response to bucher's monster 161

a whale eye
left from the whale tale
once told
over a campfire made of
golden gold
a tongue got a waggin
and that made it happen
the legs of three
the dream of me
i start the journey
riding onward
thoughts of you
push me ever goneward
this the wind of
what has been
i see my spiral way
beyond the wait of wit
and thought of spit
i clobber long
beyond this song
of one six one
to know the fun
of one just where
one grows.

who knows tomorrow
what i'll do
or who will come
along with poo
to show the shoe
just what to do
when it is third
put
on.


see http://344design.typepad.com/344_loves_you/

up

up
early
before the sun
before the dawn
of the day
just making itself
inside this darkness
a blanket
of dreams
to cover up with
to cuddle under
i am here
awake
typing these quietudes
these shallow breaths
turned deep
i am in it
this night
about to become
mourning
in the morning
and i know
it, too,
is a kind of
birth
of what cannot
be born
on this side
of dawn.