Kevin Patrick Poems

There is no point running backwards
retracing stolen footprints
in anticlockwise course
time cant reverse force
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A rose grows in the night
Lit beneath the diamond lights
Petals smooth in silken magic
Blossom crimson shaded fabric
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Blind is the ocean to the sound of its motion
As it roars with momentum of immeasurable melody
Ushering its whitecaps of sinuous elocution
Against the gold Shorelines with foam balm fidelity
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The waxing span of the silver moon
Calls to the breeze of the winters chill
The brittle arms of the lone Birch
Lay still to the frost but are not deterred
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I am not a poet
But a linguistic Beachcomber
Scouring the pleated sandy shores
For whatever grimy grains of meaning
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Come unite, you misfits of the shelter dark
For tonight we stand together as one
And if we let our demons become a pale ghosts
Then for a single moment we have won
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3 feet high, and counting parallel far and wide
My Garden grows and overflows with weeds and grass
their nimble arms crawl up my house, and neatly bind
as coats of moss knocks on my door with earthly mass
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My spelling is quite atrocious
And my grammar is perplexing
I'm not literately ferocious
Which makes reading me quite vexing
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A poem is a catch
Of butterfly words
That I chase with a pen
Within a paper mesh
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He trundles wet pavement, fresh from showers
plodding through igloos of newborn droplets
steadfast and determined on his voyage
down black soaked tarmac to green leafed pasture
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