cistern

remember them in cold grips of January windows rattling and wires howling tucked under blankets with Bears Bottles or Mate Bunnies or Pets the camp the cocoon the shelter the lair the den the cave I write these poems they come from somehwere from collected works famous and unknown from half dreamt soundtracks and radio hosts conversations on the evening train destination they come easy now long long ago i cried at my electric with crisp white sheets my poems horrid like shrapnel stunted and unloved filled garbage bags full of them like white empty skins clean of colour of feeling of experience then something happened it started to form i got older more settled more at peace yet my writing is full of conflict sometimes such odds i shouldnt doubt myself i am glad you like my poems that complete strangers can now read what i once threw away it never fails to amaze me that people can find love in words that power is in comprehension such as this freeform worked so hard to be able to sculpt them and keep them moving the challenge and purpose is to keep them moving from me to build a body of work its what i admired about poets who were published and famous they had a rythymn what would a forest be with only one tree ??..O..