"Soft defense is driven by my thoughts,
I vanish away into yesterday’s scenic road,
Set the mood among the dark clouds,
Wish I could go back to the night, of fourteen and cold.
Tell me not to look up and cover myself with the world.
Sorry I could not stay,
One too many excuses & lies,
To where they never fixed themselves;
I could not handle the air,
I had to breathe right the cold nights that followed.
I stood as one in love, under the starry sky…
Young and alone, I left the never-ending vindictive feeling.
The dust slept every reason inside my soul.
I travel the world, snoozing with the magic of the sand.
Stars that echo and drop twinkles to my walking toes.
The horizon was my blanket and shield
Where the light and night I wore,
Accelerating, escaping no more justification!
"Oceans of excuses sailed through my soul,
Heartbroken, but in love with defiance toward the stardust novelty.
With a sigh!
I hesitate not to look back,
Somewhere the ages turn to rust:
Old and grey, all alone,
The leaves I stepped on then are trample and gone.
One day I shall return for the proper goodbye.
For now, I must travel down this lonely road silently.
Slowly my heart will heal itself, nurturing the frozen sleet away.
Releasing the 14-year old girl at last,
In a body a mind and soul,
Confronting her with an, I BELONG HELLO!”
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
I remember you, from when there was a spring
When the seasons were ripe, with verdant green
Our nimble feet danced in the wind
and on the brink of everything
Not a furrow in the brow of youth
We borrowed life for just awhile
We tapped our shoes, on a promised stage
Where carefree laughter was the rage
that filled our age with endless miles
We danced and twirled a twin ballet
just you and me on summer's waves
Two pirouettes, in mode of curls
of blossoms, frilled, and tender leaves
unfurled in winds, we found a way
to soar our wings, above the world
We knew not yet
of death or dying
or of regret, or cause for crying
But, something frowned upon the season
You caught the wind, and without reason
A colder wind
that kept you flying
far beyond my eyes could see
And to the other side
beyond my words
beyond my tears
Now here alone
I touch the day
and taste the night
I will walk alone, in autumn sun
And lay myself on dying leaves
I think of you and think of then
I feel the wind against my face
that sweeps me to a distant place
where I recall what time erased
I'm closer now... to hear the sound
The whisper of the seasons calling
Above the trees, the sky is blue
I think of you, and feel the breeze
And all the while, the leaves must fall
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2011
I was sure of meeting you
under a hanging of mistletoe—
A fair flying flag of snow
to my inner war.
Maybe ... maybe I can
burn the fallen leaves
those fallen years—
A promise in whispers,
secretly kept, binding a pact.
Someone would sing a carol of joy—
The sprig of mistletoe hanging, waiting
predicting happiness, perhaps
each berry for a kiss, a kiss from your lips
your lips still
I was sure of meeting you
under a fresh branch full of berries.
A latent foresight, a beating dream.
The past should be the past:
it's my own Christmas present.
I've been waiting for so long
and must deserve it. Snow:
grains, crystals, pellets
covering days and hope — December.
I was sure of meeting you
under a hanging of mistletoe
this cold, distant distant December
Copyright © Ruben O. | Year Posted 2009
Leaning against the warmth of old oak, I recall your sun burnt skin that summer.
As I let my fingers linger on the side of the bench where you used to sit,
a memory - like noon day’s sun light, seeps into my senses.
A light wind ruffles my hair at the nape of my neck, that same spot you liked to kiss.
You said we were royals as we scattered bread crumbs for our loyal subjects.
Where have those pigeons gone? I lift my face to sky and close my eyes,
breathing in the scent of nearby roses; suddenly something tickles my cheek!
Opening my eyes, I see a Monarch butterfly, its color that of your sun burnt skin.
Written 8/31/2015 and now used
for the Any Poem You Ever Penned Poetry Contest
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
This is too complex; i mean the throbbing wound
grating my belly on a dappled day, a day
breathing of tender winds and violins. Perhaps,
the strains of notes shuttle me back
to my grandfather’s library sitting on books
and archaic telescopes. Here, we would
empty the shoulders from a rough sail;
he scattering fiddle songs on painted walls…
the mellow notes tasted like hints
of vanilla scent warmed by cadences
of burning musical passion as his eyes ,
half-closed ,melted the noise
of an anxious world, of teary wrongs.
‘Bathe in the splendor of the night,’ he mused,
submitting to a trance smitten by some refrains
of Moonlight Serenade… and my rubber spine
would bend with the flesh of his vibrating hands;
violin strings weeping till we drowned in holy streams.
Now, I feel these undefined memories… the phantom
of light exhumed his lust for old charm;
and my eyes fall on the alley of roaming vagueness.
I could have loved him more than heaven
plucking his strings so soon, uninvited.
Nayda Ivette Negron's Memories Contest
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014
I recall a filthy sidewalk
running in front of grandma's house
with bumps and cracks from the roots
of ancient white oaks…
Meandering down to the levee
with cane poles and sack lunches
crickets and freshly dug earth worms
Barefoot in careless summers...
I recall one low spot
beneath a straggly Chinaberry
filled with pitch-black delta dirt
washed in by summer rains
Shuffling through and digging down
burying our toes...
Often now I recall
when the heavens are shrouded in grief
when darkness closes at the edge of vision
I recall a porch light flicking on in the distance
I recall grandma’s trembling soprano calling
calling me back home….
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2013
for your arm wrapped around
my clavicle. I thought
I would loose my breath.
for the cusp of our hip bones
struggling to pull the drunken color
from our orange cheeks.
and our sweat, our sweat, our sweat
in the drenched summer air.
Our pants futile afterthoughts
Left crumpled on the floor
It is here I asked for your respect
And you filled me with it.
for the musk smell of our blanket den. I would watch the way dawn light
speckled your shoulders, pale, white-blue
I would trace the ink
of your skin, fingertip hovering a half inch
from your bone.
for how my name would hesitate
on your breath in brief puffs
like dandelion seeds blown from
My wistful lips when I was
waiting for them to bring back my wish.
for my sleeveless dress, as we strolled from
your father’s funeral.
It was the only time I watched you cry.
There were little holes in the cement sidewalk.
They filled with rain, oil
And your tears.
I watched your face change through
their watery colored reflections.
for the way your skin repels from my
Touch, quivers as though my finger-
print were a red hot poker.
You haven’t allowed me to touch you
In a year.
for the color of her font, as she responds to you. It is an eager
Color. She responds with all the passion of an Eskimo kiss.
You left her waitng..always.
I have been special to you,
she replies to your
like a maid
Who’s felt the hot moist
whisper of something naughty
tickle against her ear lobe.
for the way your eyes punch accusations
sharper then your razor tongue.
blue crackled lightening,
like an angry alley cat.
My words cannot reach you here.
You will leave.
We will divide our booty
Words that once held my name like a piece
Of carefully folded origami
now hiss cold
devoid like the plaster of our empty room.
for the morning
now knocking on my window.
I am livid in my withdrawal, tossing and turning
I can find no comfort
the tangle of these vacant sheets.
Copyright © Jennifer Brooks | Year Posted 2006
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
Copyright © Chuck Keys | Year Posted 2010
it got written in the sunshine
in the late eve
in the cool breeze
it got written in the moment
it got written on a swing
on a deserted beach
a most curious thing
it got written in the moment
it got written on the sand
where the seaweed washed upon the land
without a plan
it got written in the moment
it got written where the waves of the bay lap like static
and I can hear the metal grinding of a windmill
over the sound of that cool breeze in my ears
it got written in the moment
it got written watching a seagull doing a fly-by
watching me, squawking at me
like an impatient child wanting me to give it something
it got written in the moment
it got written under a big blue sky
on a distant coastline
close to where I now live
it got written in the moment
it got written while I waited
while we lived apart but worked together for our future, fated
when we again would be mated
it got written in that moment
Copyright © scott thirtyseven | Year Posted 2014
Of the Gods own country
of this paradise
where green and blue
merge as one
in the north is a city
that encompass the beauty
where the dream lands meet
lined by kaasaraka trees
where seven tongues are spoken
and a unique lingo was woken
lined by shores and calm beaches
which meets with forts of ancient elegance
who can pass by with no notice
the mountains high and hillocks of beauty
forests green and tranquil rivers
places of worship, unique structures
renowned for coir and handloom
and for its customs varied
The people here, with a smile of warmth
welcoming with open arms
known for their variety dishes
which does prick ones tastebuds
of the sense of fashion
who can beat their passion
and their thirst for knowledge
is to be acknowledged
fame it has know from times of yore
of the arts and culture it beholds
this is the city of budding talents
feel the vibe and do relent
© Nadiya(14 May '15)
*Chosen poem of the day on 16 May 2015
Copyright © poesy relish | Year Posted 2015
A path strewn thick with rusty leaves
led to nowhere and everywhere in our fantasies,
rescuing us from after school chores
and homework pages wrinkled in time;
a memory come and gone returns to me.
Back home, under a row of willow trees, I weep
for my childhood friend, for the innocence lost,
I thought I could keep, for the faded line
between joy and pain that suddenly
comes with age; I close moist eyes to see
you dancing in rain showers and climbing up
rays of sunlight, imagination uncaged;
running carefree for hours - just us, two,
whether skies were shades of gray or blue.
We said forever, a pinky swear I remember,
naïve in our make-believe world. How many years
passed by, distance growing between you and I?
A phone call once-in-a-while became just
a Christmas card once-a-year. I hope you always
knew the truth, I loved you, my dear friend.
Time cannot erase our laughter caught
on the autumn breeze and the childhood secrets
shared on that path strewn thick with rusty leaves,
trodden bare each year come fall of winter snow.
Our laughter now echoes in dreams, chaffing
the row of willow trees still sulking low,
moss brushing tears in timeless beauty,
waiting for you to come home.
Copyright © Rhonda Johnson-Saunders | Year Posted 2015
The amber light, through window glass
like time itself, shines much the same
While some things change, some still remain
Tonight the moon recalls her name
Her silken hair, her porcelain neck
a strand of pearls, a diamond clasp
I find them now, within my grasp
They bask within the timeless past
With envy now, the night is awed
Covetously, it fondles rows
of tiny orbs, which, one by one
are miracles, with moons, within
I hold the pearls within my palm
and think of old Glenn Miller songs
and mother dancing long ago
She wore them like another skin
back, long before my life began
A grain of sand, then pearls become
A part of her, .... a part of me
So fragile, weak the thread is bare
as if the sun might gaze too long
a tarried glaze, the string would fray
and pearls would fall and roll away
Perhaps such things meant to be
Each miracle, has just a while
Glenn Miller songs have come and gone
I'll put away the pearls for now
so moon can own the night again
For: PD's Contest: 101 Old Poems #6
To hear Glenn Miller's rendition of "String of Pearls" click on the following youtube site:...
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2013
In my grandpa’s field I stand midst rows of grain
whose gray-green blades stir softly in the moaning wind.
A night chill permeates my skin.
I look down at my arms and legs and realize
I’m a little girl again!
How did I get here? Why am I now standing here in the dark of night?
Far ahead of me, I see the old worn farmhouse.
Moon, big and golden, seems to have left the sky.
It’s reappeared at the window of my grandparent’s old house,
where it glows with a mesmerizing light eerily beckoning me.
I stand transfixed, not knowing what to do.
Is this a dream? It has to be!
Grandma sold that house when grandpa died.
I’d seen it one more time remodeled and repainted
and with another owner’s name.
The house I’m seeing now is the old one from my childhood.
Many things from long ago are coming to my mind:
The fields where my sisters and I frolicked in the summers;
the long dirt lane we skipped happily along;
the berry bushes along many pathways we discovered;
the hollyhocks we learned how to make cute dollies from.
It was daylight when I knew the farm back then. Sun was high in the sky.
Now I’m only seeing the eerie glow emanating from grandpa’s house. . .
I awaken to the darkness of a winter morning’s gloom,
vaguely remembering a vanished moon
which turned up on the face of my grandparents’ old farmhouse
as if to beckon me back to my childhood.
But somehow I knew (even while asleep)
that to near that house and then to go inside it
would not be the stuff of happy dreams.
There was a reason for the coldness of the night, the moaning of the wind.
The summer days have fled. Between the nightmare and the dream,
subconsciously I knew
you simply cannot go home again.
For the Dreams (poems about dreams)Poetry Contest of Royal Ninja
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2012
Have you ever woken up feeling like a kid
With angels dropping cotton candy on your soul
When knocks on doors reveal no steps in snow
And shooting stars have white beards and presents?
I get lost sometimes under goose feathers and it feels good,
Broken speakers squeak Christmas Carols
There are no clocks on walls, only the rhythm of pine logs in the fireplace
It smells of the forest I used to fly with horses,
No saddles, no hats, no shoes, no wolves...
Just practicing tying my shoelaces and sitting up straight for life...
I watch her reflection secretly pray in a room made especially for us...
It's warm, pupils - two mirrors of colorful lights on a plastic tree...
Iolanda Scripca copyright 2010
Copyright © iolanda Scripca | Year Posted 2010
If only...I could start over again.
Took that job in Memphis and stayed away from so-called-friends.
If only...I could right the wrongs.
Find the perfect songs and make you giggle all night long.
If only...My wager would have been on the winning team.
But life is mean and I lost everything.
If only...I would have turned the other cheek.
You can't walk down a street without a coward preying on the weak.
If only...I would have turned left instead of right.
An automobile accident plus the loss of my eyesight.
If only...I could travel back in time.
Do things differently and have peace of mind.
If only...she were alive today.
My mother would shake her finger and say...
"If only, If only, If only!"
Copyright © Jimmy Anderson | Year Posted 2009
Here, just by chance, we're caught, in the shade
staring, surprised, into eyes of the past
while watching the ducks as they circle the pond
It seems they are hands on a clock sweeping time
where silence is gentler,... because now we are friends
Today, on this bench, lost men will linger,
while waiting for nothing, and no place to go
Once we had claimed this 'our' place to hold hands,
planning a future that never began
Children we were with the world at command
I'm glad we aren't talking in circles, .. like then
Other children are playing in the rust afternoon,
zippered up tight, against winter wind
Talking of children..you tell me there's two
You show me a photo,…then, I share a few
I am all out of bread, as the sun starts to fade
taking away all the stains of the day
East of the bandstand shadows grow long,
falling in corners like memories do
We've learned to know twilight can be bittersweet
And taste what dim recall has only allowed
Goodbyes are said, and you then, kiss my cheek, ..
then you turn and you wave, as you are crossing the street
Left wondering now, where those lost men will go,
it worries my brow, what lost men will eat
A shadow of you, is still left in the park, …
of us holding hands, as it starts to get dark
I leave a few dollars here, on our bench
Checking my watch,… I will leave no regrets
Feeding the Ducklings Contest:
Sponsor Eve Roper
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2016
I remember you
cartoon smile and egg-shaped head.
Do you remember
how the rainbow formed on the water,
how the neon lights flickered,
or the scent of nectarines on your forehead?
They were happy to see for the first time
behind glass window,
between speaker box voices --
untouched collector’s item,
you shiny new contraption,
star of the play,
hero of the hour,
flavor of the season.
Seed of your father,
soil of your mother.
Fruit of love,
fruit of conflict.
Are you accident,
Bough in the river,
wrenched in the current.
Hand reaching for hand,
hand holding your own.
Bedlam baby with the guilty smile
do you remember
how you would not fracture the mullioned frame,
how you could not shatter porcelain,
or how you hid in changing alleys?
I will save you
you will save me.
My hand in yours.
I am the boat
you are the journey.
Copyright © Ryan Caidic | Year Posted 2006
Strewn by knitted spines and a tail
with ribbons on its hair, bright flowing
visions float along an azure sky. Gracefully,
the flight takes a diamond shape as if to roam
away in some twirling glide. And as it slowly faded
from sight, the little boy on the beach giggled
and tugged the braided loop calling his paper wing,
“ Come back; I’ll have to pull you in.” But it waved on
like an entranced sail kissing the clouds; till near dusk
marked the rising moon…quietly, he rested on the sand
to gaze at the breezy sky again; this time a bit aware
the kite he handmade and loved won’t come back…
for it is up above where its home belongs.
Moral: There are precious moments when it takes
strength to know when to let go.
Contest:A Delightful Children's Fable
Sponsor Carol Eastman
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2012
The moor side broadcast,perpetually
amid airwaves of delirium,
aria that reverberates, from crag to scar
beacon to abbey century to century,
Everyday truth in simplicity
to ignite the human race!
Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2010
You think you know him
But you refuse to see
The artful way he abuses me
He captivates my mind
He traps my soul
He pins my arms to my side
When I tell him just to go
He uses knife like words
To slice me with his tongue
His eyes are like daggers
Causing me to come undone
Harsh fingers press against my face
Proving im a Doll
To play with as he choses
Or throw against the wall
He taunts with cruel intentions
To make my heart bleed
Playing Devils advocate
Once I cry myself to sleep
Soft and bitter sweet
In an instant he turns to stone
A heart as cold as ice
Mean down to the bone
But you refuse to see
You glance the other way
And listen to his words
You join in his game
Each word he says is now a jest
Each look is a mistake
And when he grips painfully
He just meant to play
Close your eyes to his work
It really is an art
But no matter how you spin it
Inside he is an abusive jerk
Copyright © Jay Loveless | Year Posted 2012
These hands have known the joys of a boy’s youthful play
Also known the farm work that was required each and every day
These hands pulled the weeds from the fields where we toiled
Laboring under a blazing sun; leaving these hands rough and soiled
These hands held the hand of my lady as I asked her to share my life
Held her by my side the day she became my wife
These hands reveal the ravages; of weather’s savage breathe
Held a knife in the flowing blood; in a beasts ultimate death
Hands that held many a hammer; swung too hard; swung too long
Time has taken its toll on these old hands; hands that once were so strong
These hands proudly rocked the cradle as I watched my babies sleep
Held them closely to my chest to calm some hurt causing them to weep
These hands gently pushed a child’s swing; as my children laughed aloud
Held a daughter's hand walking down the aisle, made her father proud
These hands have known the heat of a sculptor’s flaming torch
Held brush and pallet while painting out upon the porch
Cradled my pen as I spread the ink in the poetry that I write
Ink that is sometimes spread well into the night
Copyright © Donald J Bennett | Year Posted 2014
God’s Cleansing Tool
Cloud-Concerto… How Cool !
Plop-Plop Plopping into Pothole Pools
On the Grass, Pavements and On My Own-Sweet- Fools…
who, don’t have Sense enough, to get out of the Rain…
… I think I’ll go Join Them… Again
Copyright © MoonBee Canady | Year Posted 2009
The memory still lingers,
Of the times, we ingested this scenery.
The solace of the water
Brushing the distant horizon.
Reminds me of the time,
I spent with you...laughing and crying.
Beneath the sun and moon,
Where the canvas sky painted,
Many inspiring sunsets,
In a sequential series of beauty.
This place still touches my stomach
In a special way like you did,
and I wish you were here,
To reminisce those days with me.
But the photo remains,
As a souvenir of the best times of my life.
Our impressions have cast their mark,
On that very spot where we once stood
And you took my breath away...
Copyright © Raul Moreno | Year Posted 2010
Rugged and rebuffed it still sets all alone
A memory of my very long ago childhood
Vine covered with creepy crawlers all about
More frightening now then when a child I think
I remember the old outhouse from long ago
3rd Place Winner
Contest # 189
Sponsor Brian Strand
July 17, 2012
Copyright © Carol Sunshine Brown | Year Posted 2012
I roam through memories
recalling treasures of the past
journeying back to seaside treks with my husband
riding to the city to see Broadway shows
reliving nights of romance
even visiting John’s grave
in the best of times
memories carry me to ocean jetties
where vows of love were exchanged
as waves lapped gently against rocks
if only we could feel these sensations again
family outings at the beach
burying Dad’s feet in sand
sauntering along the festive boardwalk
hiking through woodlands with friends who have passed
wanting to hug them again
feeling the weight of concrete
preventing my spirit from moving on
as I reach out to heaven
seeking a sign
praying for guidance
hoping past joy will be restored
confined by sadness
I roam through memories
For Drake’s “I Roam” contest
Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2011
The rainbow of reason ends
With a pot of gold and jabberwocky.
When hippocampus dwells in solitary,
of the expatriated mind.
In planned visits
To familiar spaces,
When elapsed faces are still hailed with fervor,
As though they had never gone.
Deep in thought
In cavernous bowels tangled lost,
Remote repartees recurring restlessly.
and ever leery
of echoing footsteps anxiously nearing, as though someone might overhear.
As even eyes fail to mirror
The twilight of past vigor,
Speaking in feeble voices muddled beneath walls,
Walking politely in ancient, and empty, imaginary halls.
The stars stop still and unfleeting
Listening to last breaths, and the heart’s last beating,
To hearken timid last words from the past's last illusions,
Where celestial alae still go a-flutter with lost aspirations.
When the frail hand that once held and sheltered
Cannot even rattle dandelion clocks,
Or crush delicate imago wings into dust,
Save for Elysian veldts
Where the rainbow of reason ends.
Copyright © Ryan Caidic | Year Posted 2008
Greenwich Village breathes,
She inhales exhausted tepid air,
And exhales blustery winds of possibility.
The lady blows away the veils of dishonesty.
Tangled streets strung together,
Knotted masses of pearls and poetry,
Entwining marbled heroes,rounded arches,
Crucifixes,and snakes penned on skin.
Artists, tourists, vagrants,and scholars,
Know the calling of its siren song well.
People living on the fringe of humanity,
And those from the upper crust, fuse.
The village is the one spot on earth
Where you can expose your primal desires,
And explore their depths unfettered.
She is a lovely harlot who lives to please .
Musicians and thinkers engage in chess,
Neighbors line the benches of it's central park.
Children run naked through its fountains.
The poor and idol rich roam, anonymously.
A reader of fortunes lays out his cards,
Lovers tango,who knows which one leads?
Perhaps all the seekers will find their way,
And the leaders will learn how to see?
Lady Greenwich Village,the canvas of New York life,
Her face painted with brilliant spattered oils.
Each of us can add our own divine colors,
Dripping and blending with individual uniqueness.
Copyright © Brenda Atry | Year Posted 2011
NOTHING! THE SAME ANYMORE?
I remember that place
in green pastures called home.
But where are you now
“Union Yard, Britton Holm”
Deep in reams of memories
indelible you lay,
reposed at the helm
of a life rushing by.
Guess i’ve played life’s
yet somehow you appeared the same!
Misguided my mind
in local pursuit,
one does not belong,
the only stranger there was i.
Sometimes I try to tell myself
that life yesteryear was never real,
just a fantasy of one’s youth
the way I use to feel.
“But you are so astute”
No one to change nature’s way
when every step together we retraced,
“Only the human race it seems fluctuates.”
From time to time
the dream awakes, then swiftly abates,
even the memories seem to fall
like autumn leaves
that swirls within the gutter,
when I see urbanization,
spread its wing
like some gigantic woodcutter!
Alas no more the sight
no more the sound
no more the light,
in this life to be found
in that foundation called home,
the last bastion of my folks,
only a memory of love
and a mind at will to evoke!
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Copyright © harry horsman | Year Posted 2013
Huddled over that old black radio
waiting for the final announcement...
School canceled tomorrow!
Bedtime? We actually have to SLEEP?
Where am I? Is that light coming from...
No-No! Don't look out the window!
Oh me oh my, the door, the front door...
Some has swept up onto the porch
And the steps, the steps!...
Breathe a deep, icy breath first
Go ahead now, look on out and note
how everything is smothered,
smothered, muffled and quieted
by the blanket that covers all,
covers all but the perfect silence
Breath another deep, icy breath
Go ahead now, step on out
Step out in the yard and note
dainty, delicate bird tracks
And rabbit footprints too?
(How DARE they get here first?)
Fence posts measure how much
Wearing comical, tilted hats
Pesky sprinkles of sleet
tease and tickle my nose...
Like a magical wide-awake dream,
familiar yet so unfamiliar...
A brand-spanking new kingdom of white
custom recreated just for me
Oh, you BAD little brat!
Will you again tromp out and ruin
Mother Nature's picture of perfection
and forever scar this eternal moment?
Oh yes, I believe you will
Hurry! Get dressed! Now GO...
Copyright © Tim Ryerson | Year Posted 2014