PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Dancing seeds of dandelions spring about the air
Like the pearly teeth of mountain cats
Set loose over the wind,
Carrying themselves across the grass and
Through the door of my mind,
Settling snug against the
Sides of my skull
And spurring my hand.

The pen scratches like a racehorse –
Faster Faster Faster –
Flicking ink onto the page,
As if compelled by the quiet crack of the whip
And the concealed faces
Of a thousand silent spectators.
But not a soul sees the flood of the ink
Spilling into pools of
black and white.
It is only me at my window,
Eyes flying over the flickering life
Of the yearly miracle.

Spring crackles like a fresh fire,
Licking up the melted footprints of
Birds and snow hares.
There are no Dandelion-Teeth to
jump
Over my hill and into my head,
But that doesn't stop
My pen from slumping to life,
From shaking off the sleep of Winter
And cracking its tired bones.

The babes of the Spring are yet to be born,
Still asleep
and burrowed in the womb of the cold,
Dead to the unseeing eye.
But still I see them –
Soft and light like feathers,
Quick and fluttering like flies,
Gone and back again –

Those white little seeds,
As many as Abe's but hiding with their mother –
Only I can see you, Dandelion – Teeth, me and my pen;
So sleep for now; I'll wake you later.
With my pen if I must.