Sound?

Do I have poetry worth reading?
It seems I missed the boat. A lot.
Am I in the right ocean?
facing the right direction?

The point at end is sound,
but sounds have many ways around.

Amber

A cry in wood and sun
of seasoned labors burnt none
Of peace: furnace-brung
of songs in grain unsung

A plea pulses to all things
slow moving through amber
A yearning dirge on the strings
A homestead heart unanswered.



Carmel haze,
How do you fare?
Gooey glow glazes to glare
to soften despair

All right, all good
A sweet treacle trickles
throughout the wood
a fitting form
found spread between shadows

Winds sift
Breathing life to leaves
but it soon leaves
leaving amber on the breeze
A warming wrap
coating like dreams

Bridges in the sky

A fronting alignment on the sky
Traced with the airy pebbles
of an overarching beach

Like bulbous steps made over and on
a reaching over with a puff of a touch
The  yearn of yawning burn

to a place beyond sunsets
to a roadless intersection
to a place without sea

A place for me?

Overflow

He soaks up sweet

to keep his to my feet

But the room is warm

His brain is tallow

Good evening cello

master of mellow

He snarks without hearing

Too full to feel

So climbs the pressure,

The hatred

the greed

He roams just to feel

just to live

just to breathe

Pop.

It's lowly at first

unexpected,

he groans and curses the burst

But his flates flow till he falls flat

pouring out woe, he sputtered and spat

truth

The truth: I feel lame
A bound mind-mound
meant to categorize failure

The truth: it seeps
The energy squeezing itself'
Choking on a force not there

The truth: I done
Done doing dither
Done dying to care

Coalesce

A mark of sweat lashes the paper
A product of elements unknown
The prize of a fugitive from his ramble
To categorize his chitterings from below.