Poems are free.
They thread in and out
of each waking and sleeping moment.
Some sense a poem
as the brush of a butterfly’s wings
or a baby’s smile
or the chill that runs up their toes
when they are dipped in the ocean’s waters.
Then they pause and
drink of the moment as one consumed
by thirst.
And there are some
who are deaf and blind
lost in every day’s grind.
Then there are those like me
who scribble random words
hoping to trap
a semblance of a poem.


Linking with DVerse's Open Link Night


  1. oh the scribbled words on the scrabbles of paper and backs of napkins — I think sometimes if we just took all those scraps, put them in a bag, and tossed them on the floor — we’d see our random thoughts and that is our poetry! ๐Ÿ™‚
    I do like this one!

  2. Your poetry and photography is always ace, Imelda. So effortless. But I am sure you work hard at each and every single one. Amazing shot of flowers in the grass too ๐Ÿ™‚

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s