Lick, lather, lust.
Manipulate hair.
Heave.
Incubate love.

This I did not write in a meeting so this proves that it is possible for me to write apart from attending a dreadful meeting.
I wrote this in 1998 or so.

Warm, breezy.
Cool on my skin.
Sunlit. bright.
Quiet, natural, sounds.
High contrast colors,
Eyes relax.
Clear air, breathed easily.
Mind disengages.
Curtains flutter.
A screen door squeeks open, slams, and clatters to a close.
Children. Voices at a distance.
Laughter. Shouting.

Written at a meeting last week.

Romanticized thoughts,
aglow with optimism.
Extinguished with age.

What to eat tonight.
I’m getting a bit hungry.
Soon, I’ll drink a beer.

Out of the milieu,
ethereal mist inhaled,
molecules divide.

Inward bound currents,
Invisible barrier,
Give up and subside.

Water laps a pace.
Its rhythm perplexes me.
I stop listening.

I wrote this poem after one of my team’s meetings.
Ça, ce sont les gens.
Juste, les gens.
Les gens ordinaires.
Les gens tristes.
Les gens plaines.
Frêles.
23 April 2008