Clutter-Addled


Clutter scampers through my cupboards,
perches sideways on the shelf;
then it sneaks in dresser drawers,
coyly wraps around itself.

Clutter somersaults in corners,
leapfrogs into sassy piles;
gives the eager creepy-crawlies
shelter for their domiciles.

Clutter studies blueprint sketches,
learns the detailed layout plan;
likes to hide behind the bookcase,
calling "Catch me if you can!"

Clutter wilts in pale exhaustion,
passes out beneath my bed.
Sometimes with an off-key whistle,
clutter climbs inside my head.




How Does a Thought Begin?


Does it hatch with a peep, peeking out from its shell
with a tentative stretch of its wing?
Does it fall from above like a droplet of rain
as it lands with a clear-noted ping?

Does it leap from a crevice on rippling haunches
to heights that confound and amaze?
Does it leak from the seams of our memory's faucet
or seep through the grey morning haze?

Is it birthed in a breath - just the wisp of a puff -
that exposes its delicate lines?
Is it fanned by the tip of a free-wheeling brush
in a blur of converging designs?

Does it slink out of darkness in search of awareness
and steal from our dreams in repose?
Is it captured, implanted, discovered, invented?
I'm guessing that nobody knows!



Thoughts in Morning Shoes

I love the thoughts that morning brings!
They kick their heels and cartwheel, leap
from crumpled folds of night's attire,
disperse the muggy scent of sleep.

My daytime thoughts will march along
and form in notions, well-controlled,
until they go two ways at once,
or toss me inklings I can't hold.

My evening thoughts will sneak away
(I may not even know they've gone)
to hide amongst the day's debris
or disappear inside a yawn.

But morning thoughts wear jogging shoes;
they bounce in rhythm, swing on beams,
unravel inspiration's threads,
reflect the colors of my dreams.



Throes of Aging

Youth, with blushing cheekiness, leapt
out of my shrinking pores,
leaving the prints of childhood dreams
embedded in cellular floors.

Vigor whimpered as it crept,
snail-like, to its shell;
flexibility ripped its seams
and chunks of dignity fell.

Only my mind retains its spring --
coiled and ready to pounce;
on weather-beaten trampolines
my ponytail thoughts still bounce.

Songs still echo from yesterday's fling
that ended, much too soon;
I replay reels of my favorite scenes,
and gaze at the waning moon.



© Laryalee Fraser


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