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
& their thin fingers
reach to the sky
the grey clouds

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

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


Anonymous said...

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

upwords said...

Poems are nothing.

I beg to differ. Especially about these.