poetry and more from Kenneth W Arthur

Tag becoming

Birds in a Mirror

Birds in a Mirror (After the image “Cloud Dance” by Claire Ibarra) Eyes locked with the old man, I’m reminded of stark trees naked in winter branches devoid of color, only a remembrance of beauty. Mottled with imperfection, his body… Continue Reading →

The Brazen Bard

The Brazen Bard Expeditions are risky. Moonflowers unfold beauty into darkness from which stanzas of our lives flow down the page. Or not. Much too can be said in a short haiku. Or what follows may hollow that first line… Continue Reading →


Sacraments An unintentional baptism, canoe livery advised follow river center when we come to whitewater remains of demolished dam. The precipitous plunge briefly thins rushing water, removes its depth, draws bedrock closer. Froth of river’s fury warns of peril while… Continue Reading →

Is this poem real?

Is this poem real? Foucault claimed we are all inventions of ourselves, defined into bondage by those who would control us. Scientists classify genus and species to separate, organize but we’re still cousins to great apes. You can see it… Continue Reading →

Not Yet

Not Yet I. Empty jars, egg cartons, decades-old magazines, bins of yarn purchased and unused await someday in mom’s garage like scraps of phrases I once wrote and rejected mingle in digital purgatory, vague ideas of significant insignificance yearning for… Continue Reading →


Cracked You might not believe but I used to walk with senses spread, ears perked for robins rejoicing over unusually warm March days, eyes attentive to shirtless frat boys jogging away winter hibernation. That was before a bit of pavement… Continue Reading →

The Timid Poet

The Timid Poet Microphone passes hand to hand around the anthology of poets hoping to impress with words that dance and sing, confound reason and pierce hearts. Tinder photos and book jacket head shots promise good times, fun and adoration,… Continue Reading →

If I were a turtle

If I were a turtle I would bask all day in the hot sun on my favorite log. If I got too warm I’d burrow deep down into the river bed mud. When I was hungry I would catch a… Continue Reading →

Guts a Tumble

Guts a Tumble Sometimes it stalks, hurricane building for days. Sometimes it slinks, thief in night without warning. You catch its sweaty stench just before it descends the way a deer smells danger or sailors perceive storms in the wind…. Continue Reading →

Forest bathing

Forest bathing I. … is what the Japanese call a walk in the woods with no agenda, no news of tyrants and atrocities. Embrace oak’s gruff coat, birch’s papery veneer, soak in ancient wisdom of quiet community knowing nothing of… Continue Reading →

« Older posts

© 2022 The Timid Poet — Powered by WordPress

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑