Category Archives: Poetry

Expectations & Disillusionment in 17 Syllables

Today
another’s heart

disappointed

at least
the sunset
was nice

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Hating A Tree — An Exercise In Futility

I know hate is unreasonable,
a waste of energy and emotion,
especially when directed against
a thing which has no emotion.

Knowing the truth of this, however,
does not prevent the rise of ire and irritation
for I do well and truly despise the river birch
which resides in my front yard.

It is an ugly thing; thin, spindly branches
which droop and hang low,
falling to the lawn more often than
a disillusioned wife drops condescending criticisms.

It exhibits no pride of appearance,
none of the majesty or mystery of its
white barked cousin, its peeling and shedding
more like a quarantined severe eczema test case.

I cuss the thing daily, scowling at the scattered
twigs and branches on the lawn,
a spiteful replenishment of what I picked up
the day before. I really hate that tree.

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Fire

Why do you run

you fingers through

the fire?

Because to know pain

is better

than to feel

nothing

at all.

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Indifferent

Death
moves slow
when sought out

ever waiting
within the shadow
the master of patience

indifferent to your plight
he offers peace to the sleepless

a welcome choice when her joy no longer
brings you joy, but only lesser misery

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The End of the (Seven Bridges) Road

I think we all (of a certain age) dreamed of deciding
to go,
of following the stars
in the southern sky,
of being loved tame and being
loved wild,
of standing beneath the trees
in moss filtered moonlight.
I find trepidation in the hints of what
might lie beneath the shadows on that road.
Perhaps it is my tendency to
over think,
but what if we were to go,
what if we were to cross
the seventh bridge
and reach the end of the road
with the taste of honey
sweet on our tongues?
What if we never find it again,
or some other road
which calls the soul,
or another taste so sweet,
or stars so warm?
What if there was never
anything better,
or, perhaps more,
what if there was?

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January Brown

It is an ugly time of the year

in Georgia,

brown is the prevailing color.

The brown of dead Bermuda on the lawns,

the brown of trees stripped of all

but crisp, brown straggler leaves refusing to fall.

It is the brown of dried mud tracked into every home

and left on every carpet,

the clearly marked pathway of repetitive lives.

The clouds are low, soiling themselves

as they drag through the dirt,

tomorrow the dirt will return to mud

for it will surely rain,

rarely cold enough for the fleeting joy of snow,

just cold rain and mud,

always, there is mud,

and tracks on the carpet.

January brown is the brown of wet wood

and pine straw littering a forest floor,

it is the rusted out carcass of an old car,

it colors the mood and dampens the soul

like a shallow mud puddle

laid across your path.

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Our Veterans

I am remiss in not posting something earlier in observance of Veteran’s Day.

Lost
from view,
unconcerned
with acceptance
or recognition,
deserving of all praise.
They face the things you will not —
do not belittle, nor forget —
for security, freedom, and peace.

 

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