Poetry Forum
For poets who want unrestricted constructive criticism. This is NOT a vanity workshop. If you do not want your poem seriously critiqued, do not post here. Constructive criticism only. PLEASE Only Post One Poem a Day!!!
11/7/2016 11:51:47 AM
Terry Robinson Posts: 49
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He sits upon the village bench
handing out smiles to life as it passes
by, occasionally resting his smile upon
his walking stick.
His eyes, watered down with age
and weathered with stories,
offer a simple truth to life;
the stubborn lament for all things
beyond the capture of the present.
His day on the bench begins at nine
and finishes at four. That's a lot of smiles
to scatter, weather permitting,
and feel good in the doing.
Satisfied with his day's quota he stands,
takes off his smile, and leans his hand on his
walking stick. Homeward bound he plots
his course, becoming just a passerby.
A green door, much like any other, holds
the lock to his key and the changing
heartbeat to his day. No cat, no dog,
no smiles returned.
Gone are the returned waves and precious
smiles, no more 'How are you's?' and 'Have
a nice day'. What remains of the day is
cheese on toast with a cup of tea.
Followed by a lonely night in a bed that's
ready for the scrap heap. All the while
he waits for the dawn light to break.
Waits for the future to surround
the present once more. edited by trobbo44 on 11/8/2016
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11/7/2016 3:02:37 PM
Graphite Drug Posts: 81
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An interesting poem with some ponderable language, "the stubborn lament for all things beyond the capture of the present." You seem to have some deep introspection observing the old man on his bench. Good read except for the stupid facebook links.
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