Friday, April 24, 2009

This poem was written for Ron Jenkins

Nothing Chanced

Raising voices of trusted safety
Opened my mind to glaring holes
Noted once, then used as souls
Justice opened a raked bee.

Enhanced by age volume peaked
Nesting on past deeds, acts freaked
Kites billowed lazily in spring clouds
Insects crested my tiny soles aloud.

Nothing chanced a dream is lost
Scorning is my hesitant cost
Rising above a small vacant lot
Jerking free I become the moth.
Robert Dodson
March 12, 2007
Post a Comment