Friday, February 18, 2005

Two Poems

winter poem

snow covers all—
silent & soft like a
cat treading
on a ledge

autumn resting trees
hold court their
bark covered arms
thrust upward in
supplication—
& their thin fingers
reach to the sky
beseeching
the grey clouds

fat flakes rest on
the sidewalk &
whiten my shoulders:
an atmospheric
dandruff

the still sound of winter
surrounds me &
the cold, snow-filled
air burns my lungs
as i breath


nada es nada

poems do not write themselves
they are nothing but
blanks on a page
waiting to be written

poems are nothing
poets are nothing
nothing is nothing

2 comments:

Anonymous said...

Nice. You must have been depressed when you wrote the second one.
--David

upwords said...

Poems are nothing.

I beg to differ. Especially about these.

Mary