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    This wall is enormous.
    This sidewalk.
    This canvas.


    It stretches on without end....


    But one rusty crooked nail is hammered into it.   And then pulled out and hammered in two inches to the left.  Used to hang a dreary portrait.

    One piece of black chalk is used to scribble obscenities over one another.

    An old paint brush is dipped into a used can of red paint and then sloppily wielded.

    This wall is nearly bare.
    This sidewalk could use some imagination.
    This canvas has but one color.

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    If I feel physically as if the top of my head were taken off, I know that is poetry.

    Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) American poet.

    RiderPunch’s Poems (18)

    Title Comments
    Title Comments
    Untitled new poem 0
    most likely a bad idea 0
    Orange rhymes with Door-hinge 1
    Life On Fire 2
    Destinations 1
    nimbus 1
    The Moonlight, The Fool 1
    Beaches in Black 1
    Sir Ronald of Surfwood 0
    Growing Season 0
    Good Morning 0
    Each and Every 3
    Youth and Passion: Light up the sky 0
    Youth and Passion: Arrival at the Sun. 2
    Custom 0
    Disappearance 3
    Root 4
    From a Far 2