Some poetry practice

I miss writing poems,
not rhyming, a little rhythm,
a little nonsense,
a little bit of me.

But my metaphorical muse is absent,
wherever it may have gone.
I still enjoy words, love them as companions, as friends.

***

A HAIKU

A still, cool lake bed
shifts under strain from overhead
sky trees empty air.


*****

A BAND POEM

I've always liked tile over concrete better
than any frayed carpet, either flat or shaggy.
A little bit of clutter surrounding a round empty space
feels like home. Even better if there's monotonous chatter
that I hear but never listen to.
Yeah, that's my new happy place, or my old happy place renewed.
You can't really emulate that out here can you?
I've tried, but it hasn't worked out the way I thought it would.
But that's okay. In the interim, I'll stick to cherry wood
desks, meters, boxes, and alphabetic shelves.
Williams, you keep your red wheel barrow and silly chickens,
and I'll take surrogate parents, aunts and siblings.