Sunday, May 27, 2007

the friends of art

it's art that finds
the kind of friend
that can depend
upon the trend
within the heart
that surely binds
however far apart

so now it's time
to post a lot
like in the past
when pens were hot
and poems came fast
although they might not rhyme

as after all
it's not beyond the blind
to understand a mime


im_mellow said...

very nice...I enjoy your words and how you write...i enjoy writing myself..good job

fran watson said...

Check it out. I done it!

fran watson said...

not bad. nice to have the old rhythm going.

Anonymous said...

Nice to see you are back in action
giving us mere mortals satisfaction
by writing your poems
and delivering them right here in our homes


Esav Benyamin said...

talent flies around the world
whoever comments first

can you imagine Homer's daughter
learned to speak with stylus
in her fingers curled?

until we write
our words are cursed
to fly away on empty air ...

fran watson said...

Homer's daughter, Homer's son
and all the generations
speak their lines, write their words
then pass, like last year's fashion.

fran watson said...

The Weatherman Said

Blustery, bombastic, selling for all they're worth,
the weathermen proclaim "it's raining outside."
Not only is it raining, it may continue to rain
for ten minutes or so, dampening the earth,
cooling the day, slowing the pace as umbrellas rise
and puddles appear around which pedestrians walk
and which cars spear viciously raising curtains of water
as they speed by, secure in their containment.

"It's raining outside", and dry inside
we watch the windows, wavy and curtained
with flowing raindrops. "Don't go out, dear,"
we quietly caution. "It will stop in a minute.
The weatherman said so."

O.K. Now who's silent?

Richy said...

This poem was written by an imposter. Not grim enough.

Esav Benyamin said...

i'm grim!
i'm grim!
don't listen to him!

he's just kidding
he's my brother