W.I. Stoneberger

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:
...

the dam broke
river inside
run wild
run deep
...

Wake one morning
and notice the window is Spring
- a rollercoaster of roses
ferris wheel of wings
...

Some belong to places
others to people
but all have their reasons
for being there
...

Stockpiles of syllables
fill the four chambers
pumping out rhythms
that reach into her depths
...

Seems barely old enough
to be a bride
and now her man has died
and alone once more,
...

The old man's dead -
Silence has sealed his lips,
Idleness has stolen his hands.
His stubbornness
...

'Honey,
don't be talking like that.
All that stuff about war & hate & crime
& what it's like out there.
...

to be the moon
withdrawing
into itself
waning
...

Death in the doorway
picking at the lock
while the man in the room
watches the clock.
...

Land of Freedom
Land of Democracy
Big sprawling land of Liberty,
I love you.
...