Purple's Platitudes

nothing but words …

Udderly

04 February 2015

 

I speak,

usually,

from regurgitation,

chewing and swallowing again,

like cows.

 

And yet,

rumination

is an essential part

of getting nourishment from life.

Smart cows.

 

4 February, 2015 Posted by | Poetry | , | 3 Comments

met

20 May 2014

 

 

we met,

two strands of yarn,

weaving a tapestry,

more beautiful together than

apart

 

20 May, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | | 6 Comments

falling into

20 April 2014

 

 

your eyes

I memorize,

as if I’m hypnotized,

unconsciously mesmerized by

your soul.

 

 

20 April, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

barefoot soul

13 April 2014

 

 

barefoot

on hardwood floors,

on sun-hugged, luscious green,

on ocean-caressed midnight sand,

sole-touched.

 

 

13 April, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

jungle

03 April 2014

 

 

densely

lush, overgrown,

and mostly unexplored,

like the deepest, darkest jungle –

my mind.

 

beauty,

mixed with terror,

strangely symbiotic,

in ways I’ll never understand

fully.

 

treasures

waiting to be

found or rediscovered;

if I’m lost, I’ll leave my words to

follow.

 

2 April, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

I roar

31 March 2014

 

 

she purrs …

wind carried scent,

from many miles away,

triggers something primal in me.

I roar!

 

 

31 March, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

moments full of moments

31 March 2014

 

 

barefoot

days, porch swing nights,

moments full of moments,

barely a sigh, remembering –

life … love …

 

 

30 March, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

reschedule

07 March 2014

 

 

it was

six months ago

I made an appointment.

I don’t remember yesterday,

sorry.

 

 

7 March, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment

when asked about revising

05 March 2014

 

 

almost

never, still means

sometimes, or possibly,

although, really, I just never

revise.

 

I guess

that probably

excludes me from being

what you would call a genuine

poet.

 

I am

spontaneous.

It’s sort of like childbirth,

once it’s out, it’s out, nurtured, but

unchanged.

 

Oddly,

it’s only my

poetry, as fiction

is constantly revised, never

finished.

 

In fact,

I’m envious

of poets who revise,

those who polish to perfection —

it shows.

 

It’s art,

a craft one learns,

a lifetime of practice,

that we each must do our own way,

I think.

 

So, no,

I don’t revise,

to answer your question.

I’m really not concerned about

it though.

 

 

5 March, 2014 Posted by | Poetry | , | Leave a comment