A color and an object,
Or maybe a series of them -
To paint some scene in your mind
Of what I pass by, on my way home,
Without a significant thought
Marking it all as possibly poetic?
Foiled once again,
By lack of inspiration,
Or maybe just a malfunctioning mind
That can't dredge up the words
To convey sweetly those images
Sticking oh so briefly in my eye.
I fear my imagination has left
For planets unknown, or places
In the distant past and far future,
And it forgot to leave a forwarding address
By which I could parlay with it
In this grindhouse year of many poems.
Perhaps this is why so many yearn
To travel to other countries -
That they can have a change of pace,
A culture exotic and inticing
That might make their home
Seem reassuring, or, more likely, really boring.
I would like to visit Scotland and Ireland,
To hike to cragged grey castles
Amid fields of emerald clover
That bring a diamond sparkle
To my ice blue eyes,
Amid a lingering stealthy scent
Woven amidst my ruddy red locks...
Instead, I pass a hedge full
Of bright green pods,
Waiting to explode as flowers unknown,
And other trees adorned with lavender tissue puffs
And various lawns cycling between
Drab browns and vibrant greens
As the Texas rains come and go, crying "Mary".
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