Froggacuda's Weblog

a star winked out in the nighttime sky
and did not return my love
as I cast into the heavens;
a sword standing still
riding my mind like the hip of a warrior.
one oboe quietly mediates the tree’s disputes
about who is shading who
as I am walking through.
there is no medium for art
like the dreams dreamed when all alone
and happy with where you are in the world.
writing to be poetic, prolific
I sometimes wind myself soporific
scratching at the paper making nothing terrific,
just words that rhyme
a line at a time or three
cavorting in silent melodies
like those oboes, sleepy in the trees.