Stale Bread

i will speak to stale bread,
because i know now
what it's like to be stale bread
and have no one talking to you
(it is bad).

A True Story

This poem is made up of real observations, and that is all it is. No symbolism, metaphor, irony, or other so-called literary device will be found in it, unless these things occur in nature and in the events described in the poem. Do not take this poem to be a creation, but rather as a record or document of meteorology, or just of general things.


Today was the spring equinox,
the first day of spring.

(actually that may have been
a few days ago.)

It ought to have been warm --
that's what you'd expect

from the first day of that season
of growing, and that's not

to say it was entirely cold,
but it wasn't too warm.

The buds on the cherry trees,
those blossoming pink buds

have started to unfold themselves,
showing me their white innards --

they hope to meet the bees
who'll help them have sex.

(plant sex, that is. i shouldn't
say it's much like human sex.)

Snow crystals fell on the buds,
first sloppy wet,

but then some legitimate
fluffy snow on them.

This past winter it snowed one time.
And melted in the night.

Questions About a Dream I Had

The stones in the streams
were mostly of blue hues,
and red and gold and green gleamed, too,
but was the royal color there?

The stones in the streams,
were fragile as glass,
but were they attached,
or was each its own
separate stone?

Why did the man have a hoverboard
when he came in through the window?

Until i know the answers to these questions,
i will not know what God is saying to me.