Mister Joe, would-be muse,
jangles loose change in his pockets.
Each tiny clang sets forgotten cupboards humming.
Forgotten thoughts spring up, without asking.
Memories jog the journey while he\'s walking.
The kettle whistles before; the teacup understands.
Old riddles wash, rinse, tumble, and spin.
Rhymes peg themselves upon invisible lines.
The breeze flaps fresh ideas, hung out to dry.
\"Finished the laundry, Mister Joe?\"
The washing hangs bone-dry on the line.
He gathers the clothes, fluffs them loose.
Now the creases know exactly where to hide.
By dusk, his pockets have quietly grown heavier.
Loose change is dressed in freshly laundered clothes.
Every coin now sounds suspiciously like poems.
Next morning, he empties his pockets, onto the page.....
Sorting the jangles, line by line.
He wants to cast jangles and clangs,
into the minds of his readers, if they\'ll listen.
To show enough, but to leave enough unsaid.
He wants his words to fish where quiet memories sleep.
Each image leaves another mouth half wide open.
So the reader finds footprints before finding feet.
And a mirror quietly longing, to become a window.
The catch is prodded, puzzled - shaken and stirred.
Some readers smile; some simply stop and stare.
Each little clang becomes another hidden key.
Unlocking rooms he never knew were waiting there.
The poem, once written, quietly triggers,
jingles rattling in the readers\' pockets.
Coming home with someone else\'s change.
For a poem is more than the bell a poet rings~
It is the echoes awakening in waiting bells.
The page is turned... the reader keeps on jingling.
the reader keeps on jingling.
the reader keeps on jingling.