Through distant waves of consciousness,
I could hear the bagpipes.
I strained to identify the tune:
Something familiar, but not quite
recognizable.
When Malcolm was five,
he longed to play the pipes,
and listened blissfully to recordings
of pipe and drum corps.
At twenty-five, it seems doubtful
he’s returned to this youthful passion.
And still I hear the droning buzz
through bleary wakening,
until with a click,
he turns his razor off.
.
.
(true story)
Day 1.
fuzzy explorer
leaving flower pot,
dessicated remains of summer
do not make much of
a feast.
.
Day 2.
fuzzy explorer
stretching from the flower pot
a little further today.
Oops. No caterpillar,
just a fuzzy leaf, expanding
territory. Even the weeds
abandon my garden.
.
.
Spotted the fuzz in the pot as I pulled out the drive way. This is an example of where I ‘come up with poems.’ It’s also proof that perspectives on a situation change from day to day!
Shawn L. Bird 