The mud – Cary Briel

Posted on Jan 15, 2011 in Poetry, Writing

Vainly try, tall, soft grasses,
to emulate what passes
you by.
Bare leg and thigh.
You and I glide,
dizzy and dew streaked,
past oak and elm,
each overwhelmed.
Past otter and eagle,
sparrow, the stray beagle.
And we drop in the mud,
you and I, it dulling our touch.
But I’d become it with you again.
scrawl, sin’s dirty pen.

If you were a tree – Cary Briel

Posted on Oct 23, 2010 in Poetry, Writing

If you were a tree, you’d be an ash,
so tall and straight, I’d walk right past
the other trees and climb your limbs—
first hand, then foot,
at any whim
or fantasy,
and if I were high
in your small branches, to the sky,
you’d be so strong,
you’d hold my weight,
and I’d stay with you
very late.

Your cute feet – Cary Briel

Posted on Sep 5, 2010 in Poetry, Writing

Your cute feet I planted in the rows of my garden
between a radish and squash.
I’m planning to pluck them and make a nice salad,
but first your toes must be washed.
When I see your white ankles I’ll know that your ready—
I’ll take out my best silverware.
But I’ll not likely pluck them or dare ever eat them,
but I’ll sit all the day and just stare.

An ode to freakish toe

Posted on May 5, 2009 in Poetry, Writing

An ode to freakish toe;
Who you are you know.
Beset by normal kin, Possessing
too much skin
And haunting me quite so.

In sandaled fright you come;
Not fitting into some. A nail
as wide as sea;
Large ships flee, skittishly,
To lands they had come from.

You seek to hide between;
You think to be unseen; Protruding
as you do,
Not fitting into shoe,
To border on obscene.

And though you bring a fright,
Projecting such a sight, I’ve come
to know your face—
Your clumsy, warm embrace—
So kinship is our plight.