rhyme

/ grumpygorman
image: ofjd125gk87 (pixabay)

don’t be a writer,
they said,

it’s a dead end
waiting

rabbit hole,

the tongue to
frozen
post-

give up on the word,
they urged,

at tipping point
of branch-

a rock or
bird?

brick
or feather?

don’t be a
writer..

in place of living what
words can’t
capture.

/ grumpygorman
image: PublicDomainPictures (pixabay)

was sorted out
in smoke-

windows
shut..

exits
boarded up,

chained to
chair–

ashes in our
prayers
for..

air.

a flicker from
ether,

for critical
relief

fresh breath in
the eyes

of
belief.

/ grumpygorman
image: janrye (pixabay)

swollen larks
come

swarm my
tree-

for treats but
hands

in pockets
bleed,

drifter litters
bench

with bitter
stench

in meadow
park..

dried up after
dark.

/ grumpygorman
image: Leonhard_Niederwimmer (pixabay)

..found crumbs
in road

on my crawl
to carny
ride-

sun dipped
in tank
of

deep sea sounds
drowned

in cheeky
pink

…relief-

candy floss
teeth

of mouthless
clown..

his comb over
blown-

i fled
fairgrounds..

to find no sign
of home–

just empty
road,

then flagged down
the freaks

and begged to
tag along,

“sorry pal, this circus
ain’t for fleas,

best
move on.”

image: mirkosajkov (pixabay)
/ grumpygorman
image: Lars_Nissen (pixabay)

dust in the
ducts,

peering into
moon–

scared to
land..

years spinning
hands.

image: AdinaVoicu (pixabay)