Poets Who Poet

Vintage Words


Time was a writer

risked getting the mind

broken expressing

truths too often;

unexpected or mused,

imagined or spoken.


That time is not this time

and wrens wrap their minds

around warm wire and dare

to call it like it's flown.


Since, time has become a wanton

roaming deeply like earthworms under

ton-measured snow drifts. Minutes

and seconds osmose to the surface

chiming: Spring comes, poet.

Spring comes!







Author's Notes/Comments: 



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nightlight1220's picture

Yes, spring comes... and when

Yes, spring comes... and when it comes, for some it stays and stays. 


In all that snow...have you ben able to watch R.E.D. ??? (Hehe...bet you forgot about it...).


I'm tellin' you, it's worth it!! 


...and he asked her, "do you write poetry? Because I feel as if I am the ink that flows from your quill."

"No", she replied, "but I have experienced it. "


allets's picture

Negative on R.E.D.

Will look for it. Thanks 4 reminder. ~ Lady A ~


Lady A