W.I. Stoneberger Poems

April rain
masks
the moon,
but its madness
...

The robin don't mind
if it's the poor side of town
and everything is run down
gonna sing anyway.
...

The poem on the page
wields its words
into the scatter
of my mind.
...

It sings to me
- the tree, the window tree.
Its leaves open as melodies
to the sheen of Spring.
...

It seems so natural
with the moon bobbing on top
of the water
like a drunken rowboat,
...

Fields
almost green
almost gray
streaked with purple stripes (henbit)
...

like a bird in flight
like a butterfly
there's a vision of you
that dances in my mind
...

Crooked smile
found in the closet,
tattered and frayed.
I steal his jewels
...

Where is that train going?

Only audible in the quietest hours,
rumbling along the edges of sleep.
...

There are things
I keep forgetting
to put into my poems:
...