Details |
Richard Dougan Poem
He sat in the street, reaching out for support.
He did not shout or sing or beg.
He looked and smiled and shivered,
shaking in his cardboard bed.
The snow came down, December time,
cascading softly through the air.
But winter’s chill brings ringing bells—
no space for him, no mercy there.
No warmth tonight, no place to go,
the shutters down, the bitter bite.
He pulled his coat, so thin and worn,
and yearned for times before the scorn.
On Christmas Day, he sat stock still,
as voices bustled down the street.
A world alive with cheer and song,
but none could hear his slowing beat.
And when they came to wish him well,
to toss a coin, to share some cheer,
he sat stock still—his breath was gone.
His final beat.
His final beat.
His final beat.
Copyright © Richard Dougan | Year Posted 2025
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Details |
Richard Dougan Poem
Is this what was meant for me…
The drawn reflection of a man?
Each step taken with the lightest touch,
So many they tread a new course.
At every bend, a choice was made,
Drawing circles and channels upon the land.
Choices made, lines in sand,
The track lies ahead, not behind.
I thought I’d rise, reflection true,
With head held high, over the brow.
But winds can shift and torrents flow ,
And roots will twist snap and wither.
Was the forest path already walked,
Or was it always laid, obscured?
Dreams lie like scattered leaves in the ether,
The wind whips them skyward, soaring,
Then wavering, falling - inevitably to the ground,
Shafts of sunlight pass through the branches,
Each footstep bolder, deliberate and careful.
The trodden path is worn and wild,
Shadows give way to sunlight, and light gives way to dark.
Copyright © Richard Dougan | Year Posted 2025
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