Gary's Yard Sale, the story
Authored by Chuck Keys
Among the rustbelt cities of yesterday,
Along the edges of the Detroit River,
A short distance to the side,
Resides a slice of Victorian times,
Excesses exceeded needed,
Where age confronts time,
The day before meets the day of,
And greets tomorrow.
Those in the hood
Meet and greet among
The scraps of forgotten memories.
Lawns filled with bygones of size,
Tables filled with important somethings,
For important that evolved into history.
Where memories become linked,
Each to a stored thought,
Treasured, pleasured or disdained,
To a person,
Of late or present,
To a future of who knows what.
During the day,
The history-of and the future-of talk,
Of where they were,
And where they hope to be,
The dust is blown off with the wind,
From the east, west, north and south.
The yard sale, the graveyard of the past,
The arena of the present,
Life and death of the sale,
Dance together, coupled,
Where Mine, becomes Yours' while
Gary the Conductor, orchestrates to perfection,
The operatic enjoyment of history,
Buyer meets seller, exchanges
Are made. As is today.
*This poem is dedicated to Gary and Ann Harris of Northville MI USA – May they and
their Yard Sales age forever!
© Charles H Keys, 2010. All Rights Reserved. V1.4.09252010
Water rushing through the brook
leaving drowned out laughter
and a blooming lilypad
A mother with a weary look
as she wades through, feet clad
It’s her children she’s looking after
Hair threatens to fall in her distant eyes
She remembers when she hadn’t worried
stealing kisses under barnyard roofs
She begins to chastise
“Children put on your boots”
She raised the voice, and they scurried
But inside she was grinning ear to ear
Thinking of sweet-smelling memories
and grass-stained linen
As her children crawled near
She said, “Now listen,
I must share some stories…”
Along a pier, on a bench,
An old man sits all day.
Passers by not lending time,
To what he has to say.
They'll never know the loves he had,
Or ocean blues he sailed.
If they had just a moment,
Oh the tales that he could tell.
A gent with fishing rod in tow,
The "big one" but a dream.
The old man pleads with aching hands,
Would you come sit with me?
A flashing glance, a fleeting wave,
No time for you old man.
Then you'll not know my secrets,
How sure giant ones to land.
Not sailfish fought for hours on end,
Bursting through the sky.
Nor great whites conquered, whales harpooned,
Nor where the mermaids hide.
A lass sashaying, book in hand,
Of romance she does read.
His crooked finger motions her,
Would you come listen please?
With rolling eyes, a turned up nose,
His answer once again.
Then you'll miss the most daring ventures,
Ever known to man.
Expanding near a century,
Ore exotic lands and seas.
My passions, loves and tragedies,
Would bring Shakespeare to his knees.
So when you see an old man,
Sitting there alone.
Most all desires that you have dreamed,
He has lived and known.
He can fill you with adventures,
A knew world to you unveil.
If you'll just take a moment,
Oh the tales that he could tell.
Jab Meri Bechaini Mit Jayegi
Jab Mere Dilko Sukoon Mil Jayega
Yeh Khaalipan Mit Jayega
Do Pal Ki Chandni Ke Liye
Aj Bhi Zinda Hoon Main
Meri Khaamoshi Ke Ageh Aasmaan Bhi Khatam Ho Jayega
Kehne Ke Liye Toh Roz Marta Hoon Main
Thoda Aur Marne Ke Liye
Yeh Deewana Kal Phir Ayega
In my youth, I am sure I was slim,
a figure both modest and trim;
but now I am old, I'm frequently told
my features are wrinkled and grim.
As a girl, I was agile and quick,
my dancing was stylish and slick;
but sadly it’s gone, I just hobble on
now helped with the aid of a stick.
I attracted young boys by the score,
un-limited lovers, galore.
No more sex appeal, instead they all reel
and claim I'm a dowdy old bore.
In my prime, I would argue, roughshod,
Demosthenes then was my god.
But now I just drone, I mumble and groan
and gripe like a grumpy old sod.
All day I just look at the walls;
the clock on the mantelpiece crawls.
But is that a knock, a turn of the lock?
I do hope that somebody calls.
For Black Eyed Susan's 'Aging' Competition.
The you in me that I know
goes with me where I go --
the you that isn't you at all
comes to me when I recall
the days we spent as we grew.
I never guessed, I never knew,
all that I'd have left of you
would be my thoughts of those two:
of the you in me, the me in you.
The engine: Long and black
And sleek as she could be
She shook the earth in her approach
As her heraldry.
An atmosphere of steam and smoke
Expanding in her wake
The Queen-of-the-Rails speeds on
An arrival soon to make.
Massive is her presence
Enormity her design
Power is her excess
This Queen is so refined
Once she ruled with majesty
When o’er the rails she flew
But … now, this one last time,
The railway bids: “Adieu”.
Slowly when she comes to stop
We see she’s thoroughbred
When water, steel and hard, black coal
Within her there are wed.
Her regal-ness resplendent
In fittings’ shining bright
Commanding our respect
O’er the rails of her last flight.
Now sitting at the siding
She’s puffing rhythmic breath
The museum’s destination
Of her life commits its’ theft.
Photographs will mimic
Her image of today
But missing from those photos:
Glories of Yesterday
When o’er the steel she thundered
Demanding from all who saw
Respect for Her grand power
Which held them all in awe.
But Glory, she found, was fleeting
When “progress” came to call
Her future then was set in stone
In the writing on the wall.
Now we hear the brake release …
Her throttle then is moved …
She inches down the shiny track
Where the land with steel is grooved
Then as she gains her speed
And whistles out her “yell”
An announcement for all to hear:
“I know I’ve served you well!”
She’s journeyed through the ages
And a boy – an old man now -
Watches as she fades away -
He waves, then shouts out: “Ciao!”
But in his mind is yesteryear
With his dog there by his side
Watching near the railroad tracks
Where the Queen-of-the-Rails did ride.
And long from now whenever
He says: “Remember when …”
In those times of reverie,
She’ll come alive … again.
A poem wrote by me, based on Person who is a deserving icon but still struggling hard with his career life and addressed as disturbed creature.
DISTURBED CREATURE--> Am I ?? BY Mrs.Madhavi Suyog Pagare
Am I so insane, Am I so mad,
Dramatic mood of mine is so die hard.
Destroyed my peace, Shattering my dreams,
People call me as disturbed creature.
As like mounting the pain, attenuating the drain!!
Digesting my feelings lying inside me,
Strangely nobody cared, call me sick.
Teasing me lavishly and my heart is pricked,
Hurted me like hell when addressed me as stupid.
As like showering rain, missing on the lane!!
Time lapse in journey of life,
Can hamper anybody on its path.
When I see innate reflex of mine,
I always use to brightly shine.
Though possessing every job attributes of mine,
I never thought the authorities will ditch and hamper my career line.
Falsely acting bloody swine, making my image as fade as wine.
As like affecting harmonious divine, my soul was, as is transparently pristine!!
Destroying me and testing my patience, Never wanna give up.
Transformed deviations, wanna rightly screw up.
I wanna raise up, I wanna shake up.
I wanna wake up, Tranquilize my mind.
Unzip the professional life compressed by the culprits.
Wanna explore myself, driving the motivated heights of journey.
Lastly waiting for the optimistic opportunity.
Cuffing the suspect ,I wanna rejoice by my pattern of life!!
with Suyog Pagare
Summer nights in Centerville, sleeping on the top bunk bed;
A transistor radio playing low, lying right there near my head.
The Big Red Machine was in their prime; those boys could sure play ball;
I fell asleep every night listening to the play-by-play of Joe Nuxhall.
I entered my life of puberty with Charlie Hustle running to first;
Davey Concepcion turning two and Joe Morgan with a speedy burst.
Johnny Bench throwing out would be stealers, Pedro Borbon with a bending curve;
All happening on the summer of my first kiss – once I finally worked up the nerve.
With Tommy sleeping in the bed below – nary a care in the world,
George Foster launched an enormous shot while I tried to figure out the girls.
Jack Billingham was striking them out – an apt metaphor for my chances,
As I fantasized about dating girls while two bases Ken Griffey advances.
Tony Perez was still strapping them on; Don Gullet piled up some wins;
Cesar Geronimo owned center field while my hormones multiplied within.
Coming of age in Centerville, back in nineteen seventy-four,
Meant listening to the Cincinnati Reds while thinking about the girl next door.
I do not know?
Ever since I have stepped into modernization, I have been pinched with values of the ancestors,
I cannot believe that the inside does not reflect the outside anymore,
When one says he or she has changed and become open minded,
Is it only to make one feel temporarily pleased or is just to enjoy hurting a person,
Why has age become a factor or an excuse to start a new problem?
Every time a heart skips a beat, the warm sensation takes place, a friendly chat takes place,
Numbers begin to swirl around. The intellectual chat, attraction of like minds,
Or even the rebellious differences stand in a corner against numbers.
Time flies and so does one progress with various experiences.
Does it matter if you are too old or young to be with someone?
Who gets to judge about numbers?
Nothing occurs very young but takes place during adulthood with mature thinking.
How should one deal when age becomes a problem to a new relationship?
More or less, does anyone have the right to judge if one is not married at a certain age.
With observation, reading various articles, numbers have created a nuisance in the mind of shallow thinkers in many societies.
When all the feelings are right, then why do numbers go wrong?
Doesn’t sensibility, love, responsibility or even security count or is it overshadowed with age.
Still one may try to let go and filter some thoughts, but how does one filter attraction and passion.
Years have passed by and still the jackpot of excuses concerning numbers have polluted various communities. A spark of hope is still there when faith and true love will attain blessings from the higher self and well-wishers always.
Summertime…they say the livin’ is easy,
Flowers growin’ and the sun’s sittin’ high.
They say your Daddy’s rich and your Momma’s so good lookin’;
So hush now pretty baby…there's no reason to cry.
One of these days, you’re gonna rise up smilin’.
Take a look around and think you’ve got it all.
You’ll have your Momma’s looks, all your Daddy’s money,
And all the boys in town at your beck and call.
Summertime…Yes, the livin’ is so easy,
Laughin’, singin’, havin’ so much fun.
No time to stop and think about your future
And what life will bring when your Summer’s done.
‘Cause Summertime, it don’t last forever.
Breezes cool and the leaves begin to fall;
And in your quiet moments, you'll sit and wonder
How you came so far, but have no love at all.
Summertime....They said the livin’ was easy;
Ain’t it sad how fast the good times fly;
And now, your Momma’s looks and all your Daddy’s money
Another sweet, warm Summer’s day they cannot buy.
Minutes pass like the slow falling grains in an hourglass.
Days fade away like the clouds of spring showers in early May.
Time goes on though you may not hear the ticks.
With mysterious design
Time; one of nature’s best tricks.
Some of us move forward,
Others stuck in the past.
Though we must be quick to make a move,
For this moment could be our last.
Seconds waste no time like the beating of my heart.
Hours can seem torturous.
Those who are impatient would rather be torn apart.
Your life may end when expected or suddenly,
But remember time doesn’t stop for you,
Neither will it for me.
Youth has its’ exuberance
But patience it knows not
Maturity found its’ patience
But liveliness’ forgot
Maturity looks back
At its’ wake upon Life’s sea
And identifies things
Which could and could not be
Experience: the teacher
Through dreams that motivate
‘Twas situations’ circumstance
Which helped to form our fate
Excitement filled events
While Passion fired its’ flame
Within that Youth resulted in
Accolades … or blame.
It’s smiles that reform faces
In Maturity’s recollect
Through memory’s open door …
In warming retrospect.
Time is unforgiving
But Youth can never know
Only Maturity’s Memory
Can make that Time go slow.
when I was young I could run a mile
now I watch the track with a smile
these legs are not like before
in fact they feel quite sore
folks say it's a stage
it's the last page
it is called
Adding to the eons past, its’ content there to swell
Are the names of friend and foe, whose names we’ve known quite well.
There upon the Halls of Time, those names are etched so deep
As silent, lonely sentinels which eternity shall keep.
The clock will tick ‘til someday hence – a day we know not when
Our name is called and then installed as our recompense
For all we were, or would have been, reduced by that one call
To just another name … etched upon Times’ Wall.
The Apple PASTURE
Oh how I long
To drift into the apple pasture.
Were once was and all well meet.
A pure and dear site.
Where silver reflection cover the still waters that holds the golden
grains of morality and the grazing souls lie young amounce no stars.
Oh how I long
To drift into the apple pasture
Were winds smell of melon and the trees whisper spring corals in the mellow dark and best of light and time creeps into no tomorrow.
No one is permanent.
You wake up, get dressed and go to school,
you walk down the same hallway
and go to the same class at the same exact time everyday.
You go to lunch, talk to the same people and then go back to class.
You go to practice then go home and do homework.
Before you know it,
the people you called your best friends,
you no longer speak to,
or see them ever again.
Your boyfriend of 2 years is going to his dream school
5,000 miles away.
you thought you’d be “together forever”
but this isn’t some sappy love story,
this is reality.
You finally see him after 6 months,
nothings the same
you grew apart.
You never see him again.
It’s your first year of college
and you made a few friends.
You go to parties and have a good time,
but then it happens.
there was an accident.
“It wouldn’t happen to me.” she said
“it only happens in the movies.”
You couldn’t believe it happened,
especially to your best friend.
There’s nothing you can do.
You graduate from college
the friends you made feel like sisters by now
but you’re all going in different directions.
Your best friends becoming a teacher,
and you’re a nurse.
With the busy schedules there’s no time for each other.
you never talk to her again.
You’re at work and you hear the phone ring.
“Oh my god” you hear your assistant say,
“are you sure?”
A million thoughts go through your mind at once.
Your heart races.
“Your mother just had a heart attack.”
Your heart drops to the floor and you become numb.
You couldn’t believe this could happen to the strongest woman you know.
You get on the first flight back home.
It’s too late
No one is permanent.
Hither I stand, at crossroads,
And then I gaze, at the yonder end-
The vague horizon from where I began;
And all that I may ever deem
Is that- my days
Have been a waken dream.
Hither I stand, at the edge of my dream;
Then I wonder, at the depth of my trance-
An adventurous journey through the wondrous woods;
An idyllic stroll through the vicissitudinous meadow;
And from the final station as I depart,
All that I can ever say, is that
Perpetuation has been a rouge
Of fleeting phases of my life.
St. Stephen’s College.
Sunshine shoots through the windows and fills the house with grace,
Ricochets around the room and finds my weathered face.
Standing at a mirror I see refracted light
On wrinkles, lines and eyes of mine reflected to my sight.
The youth that once looked back at me
Has gone – I know not where – in vain I search the glass, and find: No … it isn’t there.
Instead I see the wrinkles – they are stress of many years
Produced in times of doubt and my unfounded fears.
My eyes see lines and furrows as they track across my face
Hard times are buried there as my eyes complete the trace.
At the corners of my eyes I see: a pair of old “crows feet”
They’re etched there forever from those times my life was sweet.
A lifetime full of memories comes bouncing off the glass
A memory consumes me - as I feel still more time pass.
In the Winter of a lifetime, my memories come to play
Oh, thank God I have them – pray they never go away.
I turn from my glass mirror – that used to be my friend
As thoughts of those reflections I try to comprehend.
My face - it is my diary of experience I’ve had
And then I tell myself: “You know … those lines …
they really aren’t so bad.”
I remember 20:
Aflame with ideas and visions,
A mind unfettered by necessity's constraints,
Spirit open to everything -
Tomorrow held no fears,
Yesterday no regrets;
There was only day following day,
Each new and with something to give,
And each corner I turned
Led down a new road
Where the joy was ever in the going,
With a horizon impossibly far and bright.
Do you still see that youth somewhere inside
When I gaze on you, Love,
As I still see that girl with the laughing eyes
Who ran down those roads with me?
That was our dreaming-time,
The cloudcastle years
When we could scarcely bear
The brightness of our own being.
The wonder of the world embraces the young,
And they return the embrace,
But like the children they so recently were,
They are distracted, and break away
Enticed by the next marvel
Peaking 'round the corner.
A part of us yet runs there, Love;
Running and running
Through the endless light.
I remember 30:
Young parenthood, responsibilities.
We showed them all the light we could,
Let them run into it and find their ways.
Small voices grew to sound like our own;
Busy days and nights fly past
Like leaves blown out of the grasp of their trees,
Tumbling, mixing, moving on
Until at last the bigger voices went off on their own,
Running down new roads
Chasing their own marvels.
Now and again they return,
And we share our found treasures
And fondly laugh together
At Youth's follies and discoveries
And sigh within
At the beautiful light.
This was the time when we were Fortune's Fools,
And proud and happy to be.
I remember 40:
The time of Action
The time of Challenge.
This is the time we found our strength,
Though it was sometimes purchased with pain.
This was the time of lessons,
Some of them hard.
This was also the age of flowing friendships -
Some growing, some degenerating, most holding stable,
Especially, of course, the good old ones,
The ones that stretch to childhood, and go on stretching still.
And finally, also our era of finding out:
Our spouses really are our best friends
How relative time truly is
Why learning to Just Accept pays off
Where the foci of our lives need to be
When to roll over and when to dig in
Who's a Friend and who's a Face.
The forties were something special.
So now we stand in the middle 50s.
Less ahead than behind, for sure.
Youth is still not quite out of reach,
But age is on the horizon and beckoning.
Has Age brought wisdom along?
I think yes, but she's holding back,
Not saying much just yet.
Now the light has begun to slant;
There are decades to go,
But the afternoon has come on,
The hot day is cooling ...
Sunset is gathering into its birth,
I know where we are now.
I know who we are now.
We walk the shore and look ahead,
Knowing that after sunset comes the dawn again,
After a little rest in the starland between
As go the hours, the days, the years,
Pulled out, away into the great Unknown.
Now we walk together towards that sunset
And all the mysteries waiting there.
Together we shall find them all,
And when we reach the last, the Greatest,
I expect to turn and find again
That girl with the laughing eyes beside me,
Ready to run, and run, and run.
With walker support he enters the door
He’s there every day, from 10 to 4.
Orders coffee and bagel’d cream-cheese
Then sits there for hours with hands on his knees.
He sits near the window and watches his past
Within his mind as old shadows cast
His vague recollections of sweet reverie
Which only his fading memories see
A smile now and then becomes his vaccine
Against reality’s attempt on the scene
To interrupt the flow of the past
Which for decades he worked to amass.
Loneliness he constantly wears as a coat
His only companion: memories remote.
So … solemnly, quietly he spends his days
He rewinds his memories into replays
Aged and wrinkled thin hands so frail
Around 4 o’clock his walker assail
Again he shuffles out the front door
Tomorrow … he’ll return, and be there once more.
Pavers of life worn down with ware
Solid blocks built upon, set with care
October years spent mending the cracks
that Septembers years most surely lacked
Crossing the yellow lines
with a quivering spine
as November draws nearer
December years decline
Autumns harvest of memory troves
feels winters cold remembrance slow
Golden nostalgia, like falling leaves,
too briskly escapes in winters breeze
© Debra Squyres
This Lovely Vase>
This lovely vase
So delicate and fine
Shines now by the window.
This lovely vase
Has known more years than I
Known the touch of many
This lovely vase
Once a Wedding present
So my Nana said
This lovely vase
Once stood with flowers tall
Nana’s home grown blooms
This lovely vase
A careless touch and then
Fragments on the floor
This lovely vase
Pieces now were gathered
Mended then with gold
This lovely vase
As it sits there on the window
Catching sun’s bright glow
This lovely vase
More lovely than before
Now trimmed in gold
This lovely vase
Healed by the scars of time
Still with grace and beauty
The weakened soft thoughts lay humble
within future coats
a darkened past tracks scampered shines
forth a morning of immortal moved elements
it will bring away
a prime love can't be replaced
and thus it comes
a very open hide light of it's first sight
in pursued windows of no time
sun anyway goes down and hot as hell
gray visions,left behind in desire,
delicious empty shades of dawns
filds or doors
just dusk doors
and spilled life only are
these present words
I wrote this after a conversation with an old retired fisherman whilst sitting on the harbour wall at Mousehole in Cornwall, UK ...
The old man sits by the pots on the wall
He looks out to sea and remembers it all
Although he's retired and now lives life at ease
he's spent fifty years upon the high seas
He first went to sea as a very young lad
and was trained in the fisherman's ways by his dad
He had little schooling, was not good at reading
but his father had taught him the skills he'd be needing
How to tie knots and to swab down the decks
and just where to fish to avoid sunken wrecks
He could forecast the weather with a glance at the sky
the shapes of the clouds and a well practiced eye
When his dad died, this now grown up nipper
inherited the boat and became its new skipper
As the years passed he became a dad too
and taught his young son to fish as he grew
It's now a few years since the man lost his wife
so he sits all alone and looks back on life
A life that was hard with no time to rest
but he knows in his heart that he's done his best
The son carries on the family trade
a life on the sea is the life he's now made
A new generation to carry it on
The boat will still sail when the old man has gone
So he sits on the wall and waves to his son
His life nearly over but his son's just begun
He knows that the boat has a really good skipper
and all in good time it will pass to HIS nipper
Some things are lost along the line
Some things, beautiful and fine
Driving down the lone road to the stream in my hamlet
It’s like yesterday; like catching birds from their nest
I giggled as I drove by
Mothers breast feeding babies and singing lullaby
Naked boys rolling condemned tires, and
Ripped virgins with little cloths coverings, as attires
I giggled as I drove by. It’s just like yesterday
I remember Jerome and others as we gathered to play
There was the moonlight rendezvous
Where we all gathered, boys, and girls, all of us
There was the tales by the moonlight,
Ancestral heritages, sacrifices and the Lion’s might
The Lion’s might, yet he falls beneath the crafty tortoise
I still can hear the choruses; I hear my youthful voice
I loved folklore songs. Wars songs for strong sons
Let me try seeing if I can still sing one more;
Yes! I still can sing “Omalingwo”
Omalingwo, Omalingwo tee …… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo nwam…… Omalingwo
Omalingwo, Omalingwo dia …… Omalingwo
Nne nei di na Otutu-aja-o………..Omalingwo
Elikwue ma yu atuna ngwo ji ……Omalingwo
Ngwo, ngwo onye oma………….Omalingwo
My God, I feel new!
I can still sing it! Oh God I knew!
Omalingwo! Story of the child of a deprived mother
Jealous king’s wives over ready for murder
Murder and deprivation if that will give them a son
To sit on the king’s throne and shine forth like the sun
Story of good over evil. Omalingwo!
A deprived mother’s son.
I giggled as I drove along,
Remembering my tiny breasts, when they formed
And more fortunate girls laughing me to scorn
I remember these things till sadness beclouded me
I am fully grown now; nostalgia overshadow me
My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
We can’t assemble again, just like broken pot in pieces
Oh! The Eve’s tempting apple of white collar jobs
I heard Jerome lived and then died in Jos
Killed by religious rioters with missions unjust.
I heard Nwasombia is a head dresser is Lagos
At 52 and still searching? Celibacy is obvious
I heard Nosike is in aviation, head of pilots
Even Chima is now in parliament in Cyprus
Chima, who spoke big English like “opprobrious”
My age mates, plus me, all gone to the cities
No more gatherings, just like broken pot in pieces
Still driving along the lone road to the hamlet stream
Still thinking of beautiful things
The beautiful hamlet serene things.
Approaching the winter of my years,
Never yet found my reason.
So much laughter, so many tears,
Yet all that’s sure is the season.
To few, all my days;
So many spent simply breezin’.
Should I regret their waste
When all that’s sure is the season?
What’s it been about anyway?
Perhaps there is no reason.
Did so want to learn the truth,
But all that’s sure is the season.
Always tried to consider others.
‘Tis much easier to be pleasin’.
How many are my friends?
All that’s sure is the season
Felt the urge to make my mark.
Fame or fortune was my reason.
Fear of failure was my tether,
For all that’s sure is the season.
A man of Christian faith,
Hope God finds me pleasin’.
Fair chance tho’, I’ll go to Hell,
Yes, all that’s sure is the season.
So what of value will I leave?
Hearts and souls I may be teasin’
With too few words too few will read,
While all that’s sure is the season.
Approaching the winter of my years,
Never yet found my reason;
But thank God for each extra day I search.
Still, all that’s sure is the season.
Bubbling brown ridges strike
The confining dimensions in a hostile yawn:
Walk the world no longer, an ending beckons,
A precipice builds moments where swallows wager wings
On new seed: New breeds.
Falling buys the assurance of seconds
From a sinking well.
Remember us when the globe begins to slip,
Bang drums for our pity:
Our crescendos mean less than meaningless.
And then, when spheres crack, continue
On the whorl of a thumb,
Stretching hope to nothing.
sometimes, i get a wave of sadness over me.
i love you, and i want to be with you,
you deserve someone
a little less neurotic
a little more normal.
someone who is honest when she whispers, “I’m so happy”
under the covers.
you make me happy.
but you shouldn’t have to change me like that.
The wheels of time frozen, the vines intrude
weathered enclosure whispering tales of yore
resplendent in the setting sun, a majestic edifice
© Nadiya (15 March '15)
* Placed 5th in the contest 'Three Line Poetry' by Debbie Guzzi on 17 March 2015