A sharper axe

A good many definitions of poetry have gone by
That private grief is all over the public shoulder
What makes this and not that one a poem
I question while it's in the womb and no reply,
except the pregnant muse getting hormonal.  
The red wheel barrow is heavy with critiquing. 
Daffodils have not given up their sprightly dance 
in the  face of eternity.  The leaves of grass 
are growing their beards. The Emily dashes 
still take us by surprise. What is etched 
on immortality has not lost its sheen.
But every poet throws his axe into the river
Hoping some god will appear from the lore
With a sharper axe and a working poem.

Without you

The pawns of childhood fall prey first.

The grownup pieces form the next line of defense.

We try castling by exchanging our memories.

But the distance between us stays

and the checkmate continues its shadow.

Coffee stains the evening sky while we part.

And the world turns black and white.

With you and without you.

Crumbs

Anonymity is that luring jungle
around the address plate.
The trails are well lit at their mouths
with a ghoulish smile behind friendly teeth.
The crumbs strewn around 
lead to the house of nobody 
where none lived since bygone times. 
None will do this: leave crumbs, 
and wait till everyone follows. 

Speck

The Achilles heel is always caught in the blind spot
as I ride with confidence from darkness to light.
An ancient pendulum of light and darkness I am
caged in the nefarious clock house of survival. 
Thinking it is only a speck of dust
I walk heavy but lighten when I reach
the dead end of a conclusion
that I am on this speck of dust.