Brittle Armor

by Sue Campbell ©2008

Brittle armor
fragile hearts

stones skipping across the waters
never plumbing the depths

the world is a harsh place
for those of tender hearts

the earth belongs to the strong
the meek inherit nothing but disdain

gentle souls take flight
with delicate wings outstretched

protected in their brittle armor
as warriors go forth,

their love
is forfeit.

Too Much Stuff

by Sue Campbell ©2008

A dearth of dearth,
an overabundance of
wheat and chaff
floating above my winnowing floor.

An inordinate amount of time passes
waiting for the good to fall
and the worthless
to be carried away
on a cleansing breath.

Poetry Anarchy

by Sue Campbell ©2007

What are the rules for poetry?
Who knows about voice, and meter and timing?
Oh, and never mind rhyming.

That, I could never do.
Sure, it’s pretty simple
to find a rhyme for blue.

But what about orange, or purple?
Does it matter
when words don’t want to patter?
Instead preferring to shuffle, or plod, or slink.

The picture is the thing
that makes poetry sing.
Words are paint, to be slathered,
stippled, babbled and dribbled.

But I, since I’m clueless, and rule-less
am free to sling words with abandon,
seeing what sticks,
and what runs down the page.

Smearing in embarrassment, at being used
and abused by one who knows no rules.