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Gerard Keogh Poem
Emerald etchings are given birth
to bask their lives in summer's sun,
until brushing brutal winters cheek,
They cower yellow; brown undone.
Swirling down onto concrete pyres,
They somersault to a random grave.
The earth lays claim to copper corpses
But the winter wind is a cunning knave.
It finds and flips the fallen fibers,
then flings them crisply to the street.
The failing sheaves of burnt magenta,
tossed like chaff from harvest wheat.
Now strewn about with playful malice,
and denied the resting place they crave,
for the golden sun is a glint of amber,
but the winter wind is a chilling knave.
Copyright © Gerard Keogh | Year Posted 2006
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Details |
Gerard Keogh Poem
A precious penny for your thoughts,
for five a good cigar.
Prevailing wisdom up in smoke
to regale the nearest star.
Keep abreast of Smith and friends,
but true friends we disdain.
As eager birds beat frantic wings
in sunrise search for gain.
A moron's gold soon disappears,
no noontime meal is free
Roll every penny and they're yours,
on that we all agree.
Shopworn phrases from the past
still speak to here and now.
It's amazing still how money talks-
that final, sacred cow.
Copyright © Gerard Keogh | Year Posted 2006
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