mjh's blog

Birdsmith

The poet stands before a cage of birds,
contemplating his next words.
He snatches up a finch
and deftly dips its feet in ink,
stamping glyphs across the page.
All the while, the bird sings softly,
adding a common tone
to this pedestrian poem.
Returning the finch to its pen,
the poet mutters,
"I should have used a wren." _mjh

11/24/2009

dry spell

It is so nice of you
to ask about my poetry.
“Anything new?”
Only seeds
on fallow ground
my personal drought,
I reply dryly
through cracked lips,
my laugh the crunch
of leaves & snap of twigs.

In my hands this paper
browns and curls,
the pen melts,
and in flame
I remember
some seeds need fire
some brush must burn
before we grow. mjh

11/2/2003

reflect

Before dawn
I sit and wait
pen in hand.
I look across
this blank page
stretching forever.
Where are you?
I watch and wait
and look up to see you
at the edge of the woods
you emerge
and walk toward me
walking on water
toward me
that serene calm face
looking through me
at the world.
Am I your mirror? mjh

1/4/2005

the season of my muse

Around the park
Lucky leads clockwise
counter our normal

path
several trees are a few leaves
shy of brilliant
others a few short
of bare

I wonder how this
became the season

of
my muse
a child of summer
grown into autumn
to fall
to leave
and should I worry
when my poems
turn to snow

and the dead of winter? mjh

10/26/2004