Joanna Ballard
_________________

This Bed

There is something strange about this bed,
Or it is in cahoots with my head.
Some wandering gypsy must have forgotten his curse.
For it matters not how weary mind and body might be,
As soon as my head and pillow greet
Eyes fly open and
Limbs wrestle one another,
While the bed lies on complacently.

Thoughts both somber and silly
Fight for reign in my brain . . .
What's up for tomorrow?
What's down the road?
The words that need writing.
What rooms need tidying . . .

There is something truly strange about this bed
It either messes with or psychoanalyzes my head,
Making sure I scorn the night
And shun the light.

So if you see a gypsy
You might mention you know of a bed
To be had for free!
(Sunday @ 4 IX,2 [Summer 2003])

Water

Within which
We are formed
And burst into
This world.

Adam's ale
Quenching,
Sustaining!

Saltiness
Shed in times
Of sorrow and joy.

Healing,
Cleansing
Within the sea.

Water
(North of New Orleans 1,1 [Fall/Winter 2003])

Jazz Soloist

Sensuous, sliding, sounds,
Cascade caressingly,
Tantalizingly, teasing the listener,
Lustfully, lingering
In the atmosphere.