Poems Come

Poems Come

Poems come

On the edge of sleep
On the borders of waking

In the fiery light of the dawn
In the fading embers of dusk

Beneath cottony clouds dotting a juicy blue sky
Beneath greasy black soil of oil poisoned bogs

Amongst the shuffle and bustle of life
Amongst the solemn stillness of mourners

Within the open, innocent heart of first love

Within the evil, bitter and twisted mind

Above the scented heads of infants
Above the frail heads of elders

From the moment of creation
From the dying of the light

Near the goose bumped flesh of fear
Near the spine-tingling shiver of epiphany

Through the delicate fragrance of flowers
Through nostril flaring stretch of decay

Against the rough, hard, cold edge of stone
Against the smooth, warm curve of a lover

Poems come

Ken Goree