Feste's Lute

Scribbles & Sketches of the Unspeakable

In the Eye of the Storm

Those eyes are a chorus
that slips sound from
my lips.
Those thoughts are a zephyr
that spins air round
my pen.
When the ink dries
and the notes die,
they have a look
that says you’ll stay around.


Was there ever
quite as grand?
Makes crones
when he waves
his webs through
mossy muck.
Nothing like a duck.

On Track

Thoughts at a brisk pace,
gently jogging memories
of donning coats and shoes
for lace and dinner plates.
Our palates cleansed of day
today, living in this hour
and thinking of the here
and now, I swear
I think I like our pace.