I Conceal My Craft
I conceal my craft beneath my shell.
Mine of an armadillo, snug in its embrace,
nestled near its warmth,
as insects buzz under the midday sun,
where stories collide with struggles,
and words fester like unresolved thoughts,
distant from the critics' needle pen hearts.
Their relentless demands, cold cash,
and hollow praise layered thick with honey
on pages between verses, where every line
holds a lingering scent or memory.
I gaze up at the vast sky and chuckle.
Speaking in tongues nervously out of mind
shining chimes waiting for the next critic
to declare my thoughts don’t flow,
out of character, my rhythm’s a misstep.
I tally each word, joy, and sorrow.
One poem, one collection of verses for me;
One poem, one collection, a poetry book against me.
Breathe shallow, breathe hard for the heart with age.
I conceal my craft under the armor of the armadillo.
Tonight, Tonight
Tonight, I am the moon’s envoy,
bare feet awash in silver.
Longing settles in me—
spark or ember, I remain.
Thunder soft as cat paws,
storms now gentle memory.
I flutter, no longer afraid,
teaching darkness to move gently.
Tonight, I find comfort
in the moon’s borrowed light,
trusting dawn will come.
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