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