Intervals of Light
The light comes on.
cold rain
cling in drops
of shiny
beaded introspection
hanging on . . . to illumination
The light goes off.
cold rain
cold like thin
ice, slow like t r a n s l u c en t
spider-webbing sounds
creeping...across...the grass
The light comes on.
cold rain
taps on thin
metal
with no
clear sign
of rhythmic
balance
each drop
the first
of its kind
cold rain
cling in drops
of shiny
beaded introspection
hanging on . . . to illumination
The light goes off.
cold rain
cold like thin
ice, slow like t r a n s l u c en t
spider-webbing sounds
creeping...across...the grass
The light comes on.
cold rain
taps on thin
metal
with no
clear sign
of rhythmic
balance
each drop
the first
of its kind
posted by Sir James Eric Watkins at 11:18 PM
3 Comments:
I've been writing up a storm. that's cliche. maybe I was writing up a funnel cloud made souls and sounds, sounds, sounds....
must sleep now.
been writing for days.
nighty night.
enjoy the poem.
or tell what you don't like about.
that's always good too.
So, I'm guessing it's raining down your way... If it is, your rain is beautiful.
Becky
I really like this, it creates images of sounds, which is not that easy to do.
Post a Comment
<< Home