Medium Dark Roast
I'm sitting in the coffee shop.
It's dark outside, but
noisy neon bright in here.
5 a.m.
I don't care.
I don't hear.
Just thinking of the times
that I faltered,
failed.
Faltered.
Always my fault.
Not part of the pack.
Just in my dreams in this blinky café, with
a hot cup-o-joe on a cold early morn.
I don't care.
I aint here.
Been on my mind.
poem by Rick Stokes
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Moon Dreams
My dream is moonlight
dancing on a quiet breeze
of secrets grinning.
~ ~ ~
The sky spills out its
moon is full and hovers while
new light is swimming.
~ ~ ~
Slivers of moonlight
etch the surface of my mind
like diamonds on glass.
~ ~ ~
The moon outside my
window whispers moonlit dreams
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poem by Rick Stokes
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In The Shade
Floating on scent of a cut throat blue spruce.
A pillow of dust moves over my eyes.
My memory - it staggers, and then almost falls.
I was standing - remember? - next to a road,
hoping my thumb might stop the next car.
Brake lights go on,
pull over,
then stop.
The driver comes running.
It's a woman in blue.
Wow…
Now on my back
and looking down road,
and at the cows, and
the chickens.
It's farm country, you know.
poem by Rick Stokes
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Meadowlark
I walked by the creek today.
A meadowlark was on a strand of fence.
Then she flew into a tree that's full of blooms.
The creek runs next to home, my
parents' home, where I grew up.
It was good, in a valley near a pond.
Always summer - nights were never long.
I lived there. I think
Now I'm not too sure.
Ava told me, valley's in your mind.
Not on a map, but in your mind.
Someday, she said, you'll take a walk there.
And swear you saw me fly into a tree.
poem by Rick Stokes
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Raven
My raven was at my computer this morning,
on the desk and
standing near the keyboard.
I assume you're writing a novel, said I.
Never more, the raven said.
Very funny, I replied.
I yelled at my neighbor because he's a pig.
He yelled back,
Hey man - you just won the prize.
Prize for what? I yelled to him.
The pig wouldn't say.
He just walked away.
So now my raven is writing a book.
He may win a Oscar.
I'll be his chief.
95 / 5 and nothing less,
with a handling fee of 25,
and 15 bucks for cleaning cage.
poem by Rick Stokes
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Blue Daze
True as the moon turns
a zephyr blue daze,
seeks the end of
a quandary of weaving,
A zephyr blue daze
and a crescent of sky,
a quandary of weaving,
sharp light in my eye.
And a crescent of sky
is a reason to smile;
sharp light in my eye
while singing a tune
is a reason to smile,
a tangle of jangles
while singing a tune,
glowing with light.
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poem by Rick Stokes
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Incognito
My name is Dick.
I've had that name since the day I was born.
OK - it's Richard, but those who call me that
have a clipboard in their hand.
Then in my 20's I changed my name to Rick.
Please keep in mind - that was in `72.
At least I didn't choose Song Of Dog,
or Ben 2 Awe Sun.
Now some just call me Rick,
and some still call me Dick.
Some say Richard, then there's some
who aren't too sure of what to say.
Dick:
as a noun - What a dick!
an adjective - Hey dick head!
a verb: - Don't dick around!
an expletive - Dick! My hair is on fire!
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poem by Rick Stokes
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