Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

drinking that Harford roast
in the treehouse again, those
young pit bulls
are tryin' to drown out my mellow

as well as my clanging wind chimes,
but I reset my chakra
to hear Stravinsky,
push my ballpoint deeper

into the yellow pad,
smell wood-fire from down
the street, wafting serpentine air
flows into another sensibility

the colors of autumn such teases,
those mid- Atlantic sirens
their temptation choreography
is no competition

for the small voices of little dogs
starving for attention,
no, puppies are only white noise,
the dancers of November

are brush fires of endless pastel palettes

a swell read, saw... worthy of rereading more than once.

gracias.

I can picture it, smell things, hear the mutts. Fine poem