October Dusk

it seemed appropriate that my first Blog post be a poem, since being a poet is pretty much what I'm all about.

There are some people... a whole lot of people, in fact... who write poetry. Some of it's good, a lot of it is bad, and some of it was never meant for anyone but the writer. I think there are only a few real poets, though, and sometimes they are just poets in the soul, and never really write any verse at all.

Cooking dinner can be a poetic action, if the smell of garlic and lemon and rosemary on your palms moves you, and someone you love is waiting to be fed. Pigeons scrambling across the pavement when you cross the street, waves breaking on the shore, the sound of church bells, the sunrise or the sunset, the soft little grunting sound the dog makes when he's joyfully asleep... all can be poetic moments, and may or may not be called upon to fight their way onto paper.

This one did.

OCTOBER DUSK

Caramelized sky, melted day.
The smell of wet brown.
Soft that clings to light,
yearns to sink itself inside
the night
fallen open.

Talk to you later.

- Ronda