At 2 a.m. the engine hums & the road awaits his tread,
A departing message on the front door camera to his wife and two kids, as he slips away in dread.
The house is warm, the night is cold, his heart is torn in two, for love is here, but duty calls,
"its the career he chose afterall".
He knows the sound of silence well, when fathers must depart,
He lived it as a boy himself—those echoes scarred his heart.
Hi-Vis uniform, the heavy boots, cigarettes comfort the pain,
Now he repeats his father’s path, the cycle forged again.
He grips the wheel, his knuckles white, his head weighed down with ache!
Each road he drives a silent vow: “I do this for their sake.”
The Coal Mine swollows up his days, the dust, the grind,
A job at home is the dream he holds, to leave no
family need behind.
And though each departing cuts him deep mile by mile,
He builds a future, stone by stone, for those who make him smile.
A father’s burden, masked with pride, though loneliness may sting,
For in his sacrifice he gives his children everything.
18th April 1775 on the strong big-boned mare
'Brown Beauty' may have been her name
borrowed from John Larkin a very good horse
of Narragansett Pacer fame
a copper-bottomed silversmith
Son of Liberty Patriot and Boston-born
riding with Prescott and Dawes toward Lexington
then Concord minutemen in advance to warn
of the British Army's actions
was intercepted in Lincoln but doing his bit
the man had lanterns as the plan
and arranged to have a signal lit
in the Charlestown Old North Church
with one if by land two if by sea
but in those long-gone days
as it was unknown technology
right then and there
it was quite unlikely to see
three if by air
some say vestryman Pulling and sexton Newman
(not a deacon)
as the midnight rider never made it all the way
were the real heroes of the day in fact quite a beacon
My love for you is Interstate 93:
not beautiful, but there for all to see.
How summarise your worth in my affection?
Isabella Stewart Gardner’s louche collection.
Though dowdy, your hair to me is dear,
as is the rainworn house of Paul Revere.
I long to take you for my wedded spouse,
like wanting chowder (Union Oyster House).
To win you, I’d cross infinite frontiers,
just as I cross the Common (beers in ‘Cheers’).
My heart accepts you as its oligarch,
like Jarren Duran rules at Fenway Park.
POTD~
In the misery of a paler grey nightfall
she blinks like citrine glazed along walls,
Ivy of Boston flaunts her shimmer without guilt
as palette of amber claims her lustrous glides
slithering with her bohemian lift,
rosette flesh blushing in chilled breeze.
Social climber this paramour, whirling
among plants wanton wild ,
trickles of mist freckle palms of curled leaves-
stem for stem-- translating the language of time,
of how branches relish herbage flow
as my wet hands paddle my dusky breaths
through mid-evening's freeze.
How her alchemy draws gasping sighs
more red than red could ever tease,
and that gypsy's heat...leaving mortals
in awe-...that her fluid pose seems to jut out
from a glass frame to rush forth with all
her womanly senses gushing, snaking,
writhing in the middle of ghastly, boney winter
meant to return on the edge of wild abandon,
enticing men with her faceted charm
never ever the same each time.
Today
I decided
not to rhyme
The words
in volleys
poorly formed
Predicates
outcast
covers smashed
Their accents
bouncing
meanings lost
Today
I decided
not to rhyme
Appeasing
some
beyond the fence
Connections
broken
phrases served
Playing tennis
without
— a net
(The New Room: November, 2024)
We loved when dad would call
For some paper, string and sticks.
He'd ask for flour in a cup
And show us other "tricks."
He'd take a simple grocery sack
And lay it on the floor,
Then mark a border 'round it,
Notch the sticks and more.
He'd mix the flour and water
To make a basic glue,
They lay the sticks across
And tie them taut and true.
The paper next, he would affix
And the "Boston" flare took shape.
It was not like all other kites
With it's rustic, six-point drape.
We watched with eager eyes
As our kite was finally formed.
We got the string and tail attached,
And a dream for flight was born.
Then out we'd go, to let'm soar
Embracing times together.
While short the flight of Boston Kites,
The memories are forever.
It’s all good, it will be
The printer will print
Will that settle the soul?
For now anyway?
It’s not about the TV
Or the lack of furniture
Or worry about money
Or who likes you or not
It’s about perspective
How to understand what happens
In the wide open space
That is life, the future
It’s what we can control
the wisdom of age
And how that feels condescending
But it’s not; it’s experience
It’s speaking through time
So annoying to the young
“You don’t get it” echoes
Through generations and family lines
It’s the blankness in spaces
Between one life
And the successive beings
who push and pull
Until they split off, a separate orbit
1982, Boston, a Bar with regulars like Norm and Cliff.
In breezes a chatty stuck up blonde, her attitude quite stiff.
Sam comes out from the back room and tries to help her cope.
She’s apparently been jilted by some guy, a serious dope.
Carla comes in and puts tension and banter into the air.
She’s the mouthy waitress whose words slice without care.
Gershon sits in the corner, writing his poems in a frantic way.
He has had a crazy epiphany, ending in a writing mood day.
Five hundred awards he says, quietly, under his breath.
He is writing for a contest held by a poet named Seth.
Five hundred awards, he thinks, glad to be in this booth.
Of course to brag and boast would seem truly uncouth.
And since he is gallant, and a hero to this poem right now.
Let’s just say he enjoyed Cheers, a bar with a bit of “wow”.
He took notes about Cliff, Norm, and Diane, Carla of course too.
Appearances of Rebecca, Woody and Frasier are long overdue.
Boston
city snow
falls gently on the Common
drifts lazily across the Charles
slows the Red Line flight
of late commuters
dampens the bedding
of the homeless
muffles the distant tone
of well fed preachers
welcoming all
to empty churches
throws a pristine blanket
of cold beauty
on a sunless daybreak
John G. Lawless
12/21/2020
Last Monday he went up to Boston
He took his big sweater in case
Now it's below zero in Boston
The poor man got frozen in place
Oh, send back his body from Boston
We'll bury him here in the sand
It's warmer down here in Austin
He wasn't a travellin' man
He thought he could make himself great wealth
Instead he got froze to a door
Didn't know nothin' 'bout weather
He thought that's what sweaters was for
Oh, send back his body from Boston
We'll bury him next to his Pa
I can hear him swearing 'bout Yankees
"Coldest place that I ever saw!"
1-19-20
Contest: Strand Choice
Sponsor: Brian Strand
A thief in search of clam chowder
Instead encountered a clowder
A pussy is nice
When its chasing mice
So the thief just took a powder
Park Bench #286
Boston Common
Christmas
Colder, less comfortable,
holding court with
weakly trembling sun
I offer my scant refuge -
a silent moment - awaiting
life’s unrepentant penitents.
I listen as regret
stings the faded paint
of weathered necessity,
as tears make me cry
for the rain.
I am scarred
by the knife points
of broken hearts,
stained by the tremors
of spilled wine,
splintered by the pain
of anger’s boots.
The lights glisten
in the icy winds
mocking me - they dance
across the crumbled snow,
carolers pass by
rushing to sing of joy
at well lit windows.
A tattered coat slides
wearily accepting my offer
the crusted weight of a life
seeking the solitude
of loneliness.
John G. Lawless
©11/26/2018
An ancestor known as, "Miss Lottie"
Was a New York socialite "hottie"
To her lasting disgrace
She slapped Paul Revere's face
When he invited her to the p-ah-ty
Boston Celtics
Can rise high to
Any opponent
Internal or external
So did the leaves shivered
at the breath of a sudden chill,
in the midst of
colorful hopes already drift
lovers fallen in the trap of illusion,
the same road awaits.
Montreal was cold and gray
and all those shops
incongruous
with spices and pungent smells
deceived us of where
we really were.
I have left you in such moldy flats
to spend the endless winter,
lone at your empty banquet
your enthusiasm
long before had vanished.
The sightseeing along
the highway
staged a melancholic show:
distant reds, yellows,
an agonizing greens
red, burgundy, into brown again.
A see-through of skeletons
the stretched trees implored
slowly sinking into apparent death.
I now look at the dense black water
of the ocean
washing needles ashore
while the unrelenting joy
of a clear day
stands behind newly built
outstanding condos waiting.
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