National Poetry Month 5/30

It tastes like cold

and summertime porch swings,

a chilled glass gripped tight

raising us from perdition

into our contemporary

hell on earth.

Mosquitoes run the world

and swarms of bees

dance along the stems

of favored flowers.

The mind is a

boggy minefield

of sepia-toned memories

never experienced.

Advertisements

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 )

Twitter picture

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

Facebook photo

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

Google+ photo

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

Connecting to %s