Sunday Afternoon

Three yellow cats up a tree.
Our fire-red grill is still cold.
We're tossin' horseshoes and
watching blue dogs
circle three cats up a tree.

poem by Rick Stokes
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Minor Key

Coffee and a sunrise while a
prelude plays my mind.
Music colors dreaming, mixes
syncopation into lyric tunes.
Birds will lay their eggs today.
I fear a turn to rain.

poem by Rick Stokes
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Seventh Time

The voices I hear
drifting back through the
clouds of my mind beg for light.
The darkness will fade.
I will speak very loud, and
tell you about
all the voices I hear.

poem by Rick Stokes
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Demolition by Fault

The amateur brain surgeon was patient,
tried to be gentle when probing the
Primary Somatosensory Cortex.
But tremors in his hands cut short
his forever-cleaving career.

poem by Rick Stokes
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Machine Shop

a radio sings
against the scream
of turning steel.
(heavy metal)
air settles
corners seldom touched.
pinups gaze
through haze at
shiny shavings
(bare)
on concrete floor.

poem by Rick Stokes
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Rain

The sky
spills full of tumbling gray. It
hovers in the air,
silently
dampened by the rain,
footsteps
walk on softened ground,
whisper in the trees.
Whisper.

That remains.

poem by Rick Stokes
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Through the Sky

This is the wing
of the running
through sky
& was flying through
clover
& sunshine is flowing
& water is shining
& somehow I'm
falling;
with oar and a wing,
through
a hole in the
sky.

poem by Rick Stokes
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Whispers

fingers of clouds
in the valley
caress
 
her dress slowly
drops to the
ground.
 
blizzard blows hard
against her bare
limbs.
 
whispers snow in the
shower next
morning.
 
whispers
stay until Spring.

poem by Rick Stokes
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Winter Solstice

I swept the litter
off my mind;
the fallen leaves,
thoughts that don't fit,
pauses and smiles that
were awkward and cool,
conversations that died,
and dreams gone beyond
their good-until this date.

poem by Rick Stokes
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And It's Humid

Static on the radio whispers that song
about wine in the fridge that is cold
as the wind chasing crows.
And I'm singing the blues ‘bout a woman I saw
who was sitting alone in a cosmic-red Ford
from the moon.

poem by Rick Stokes
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