Book of Poems

Another Autumn, By The Lake

In the solitude of my poverty
I write the quaint verses that will never be
Read
Words that come out of nowhere and
Fix themselves in my brain
Regurgitated, like a mother to its young
Sustenance, without gratitude or valued

Regard

We have become such
Dull creatures
In our dry wall and plastic
Stick domains
Unable to appreciate
The diamond that sparkles on the water
Or trembles in the dark center of a

Penetrating eye.