Tag: Poetry

Time Enough

There is a time for grief
and yet
no depth of grief will
matter when it is time
Still
time is all we can hope for
Time enough to pool the tears
To hold them long enough
to distill
the poem
Water
into
wine

The Poet’s Society

I inquired (most politely
too) if I might sit
with the poets?
The proprietor
said no (that is)
unless I could
give assurances
to esteem them
greatly or if that
was deemed
disagreeable
a (reasonable) fee
would be instituted
or, failing that,
free drinks
might suffice

Following Blind

Over
Under
I preferred
a lateral path
A scavenging crab
but the alleys
were thick with
abandoned flowers
I lacked the courage
to face begging for
light or a drop of rain
beneath the steel skies
I helped to create
so I went
straight
through
safe
in the
center
of the
blind
masses

They Seem Real Nice

Brother
Father
Mother
dead and gone
They don’t cross
my mind
No fond memories
intruding on holidays
No sudden urges to call
We were family
biologically
That’s all
More a
periodically affectionate
living arrangement
Sometimes TV families
cause me to cry
It seems like it
would feel real nice

Take Heart!

You’ll all be dead soon
Soon,
I presume,
in earth’s
measure of time
A wink of an eye
and I will be too
so take heart!
It will all be over
in no time and we’ll
wonder why we bitched so much

To Be The Wind

I am envious of the wind
How it travels the world
choosing its pace
Racing past the ugliness
or slowing to kiss the faces
of smiling daisies
Scratching behind the
ears of polar bear cubs
Caressing bodies entwined
in love under the moon
on exotic secluded beaches
There is nowhere it does
not reach
The breathless breath
of the ages

Roadmap

Hell’s roadmap
is printed
on non-recycled paper
once opened
impossible
to re-fold
and it’s old
so old
closed roads
are still shown
but not noted
as such
and you drive
and cuss
and drive
and cuss
forever

Orchard Days (Transient Youth)

I recall the orchard days
The youthful fruit
Juices flowing
Now the bark
is noticeably gnarled
bathed in the melancholy
gold of mid-Autumn and
the breeze
once blunt and hot has
been burnished to a
clean edge by the brush
of long summer days
and it clips away what
the tree no longer needs
scattering leaves
and years

Plop!

My first brush with freedom
the inkling that the small person
I was could affect this world
came at Carvins Cove Reservoir
when I picked up a rock and
launched it with all my
awkward force into that
vast expanse
and it answered
With a “plop!”
And ripples
And it thrilled me
to my toes
I’m still throwing stones
into the universe

Again!

It is all outrage
Outrage!
All that came before
must be destroyed
Indignation!
All that was made low
must be deified
deified!
until such time
all are found
alike as the hated
when sated by the
heady wine of power
Retribution will assume
the guise of progress and
we will be lost again
Again!