Old BoysOld Boys3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Riding down country roads
to local farms on a Saturday
with my granddad
to see equipment auctions
as the old boys cashed in
Standing there in bib overalls or Dickies
with their dark glasses on
smoking pipes and cigars
they'd talk politics or crops
their deep voices rumbling quietly
I was enthralled...listening to the auctioneer
rattle off prices at breakneck speed
for a Farmall tractor going once
Sold to the man in front...
Or grandpa would take me with him
to the local VFW Post 6464
on Thursday evenings
to play Euchre with his friends
I'd bring along a few dog-eared
Reader's Digest magazines to read
as they played
Every so often I would walk over and
say hi, see how grandpa was faring
Usually he was cleaning house
winning almost every hand he played in
The ladies would bring a cake
and we'd have that with coffee
It felt...comfortable in a way
I find hard to explain
Sitting there surrounded by veterans
men who still wore those black-rimmed glasses
and their hair was
Rhapsody In Zero GravityIs deep space silent?Rhapsody In Zero Gravity2 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
Amid the revolving spheres.
In perpetual night.
Or does God whisper?
Echoing across light-years vast.
Filling the void with song.
fireflysoftfirefly5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
the campfire murmur
of the firefly
perched on my collar
glowing in beauty
temporal, innocent, finite beauty
do you know
asks the firefly
no, I do not
and we sit there
and he flits through the velvet black
the jeweler's cloth of a July night
we listen to the breeze mingle
with the white pines
the maples are laughing
the sound of their leaves is a purity
that man cannot attain to
gentle the moon barely glides
as the embers pop and crack
sparks rise into the cool air
free-agent ripcords of fire
the fireflies watch them go
jettisoned into the cosmos
the firefly and I
I watch them drift in the aether
while the fire glows a sleepy red
all hands retiring now
lulled into an easy sleep
as the trees laugh in their effervescent way
so clean, so strong
the firefly is the last thing I see
as we disappear into dreams
Some Things Are StrongA country table set for a threshing gang lunchSome Things Are Strong2 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
In the deep green shade of a towering maple.
While the sun shines hard, the men will toil at the harvest
Till the last sheaves are done.
Then they move along to the next farm
To begin their work again.
So it is with a poet
Who has spent his years haunting
The rock-strewn fields and birch-lined logging roads
Of New England.
Learning the colors of her moods,
Listening to her songs
In a thousand laughing brooks;
Wondering at the cathedral stillness
Following a January snowstorm.
I've watched the burning sun make his way
Down behind the rows of corn
And fieldstone walls.
With a tip of my hat to the crimson reds
Along the horizon line
I bid him go till he brings the morning
With him once again.
It is good to bring to mind
The paths I've trod, the lakes I've fished,
And neighbors I've met in passing,
Perhaps in a simple dooryard.
Where a dog is barking from the porch,
And cotton sheets hang on a clothesline
Drenched in the lilac air.
How Do You Tell ThemHow do you say...How Do You Tell Them3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
how do you begin
to tell the next generation
How the world once was...
Should one speak of fashion trends
the pegged jeans
and big hair
Or perhaps the yearly
(if not more often)
vacations Up North
to crystal clear lakes
beneath diamond-bright skies
Watching as the big-block jetpumps
with the loud, metallic-flake paint jobs
roared across the waters
while we sat on the sand
listening to Phil Collins
How will I tell them
about the games of Hide and Go Seek
in between the pines
when the air was soft and fragrant
with youth and promise
Perhaps I'll them about
the hayrides in the Fall
sitting on the bales of straw
watching the fiery parade of colors
Desire for Poetic LineageI wish I could write poetryDesire for Poetic Lineage8 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
That summered in Long Island
Within horseshoe distance of Rockefellers, Vanderbilts and Astors.
I wish my pages were tinted with wood smoke
Trailing back from the 20th Century Limited racing to Boston.
I wish its shoes were muddied
From wintering in the Berkshires with Hawthorne.
I wish it bore the paint splatters of
A night spent in Saint-Remy-de-Provence.
I wish it knew the hungered, soulless eyes
Of kids in Carolina cotton gins and Pennsylvania coal breakers.
I wish it had helped fix the propeller shafts at Kill Devil Hills.
I wish my binding was kindled with Spurgeon's fire, then kept alight
With Screwtape's missives to his apprentice.
I wish my words had dared the trials of Stanley and Livingstone.
I wish my poem aspired to treasonous courage in defiance of the Crown
To pursue Life, Liberty and Happiness.