Lunchtime Poetry
A train passes, cries. Sobbing new life throbs within once quiet hills.
A train passes, cries. Sobbing new life throbs within once quiet hills.
Geese tread icy waters. They don’t shiver, But I think they’re cold. Their little brains cannot plumb Man’s artifice. But neither can Man. &nb...
Rain falls. Even these words are wet and soaking. A fog rises and obsures the past. The crust of past experience. But sometimes I remember how it used to be.
I remember there were trees, And shadows And the smell of wet grass And tiny ripe berries That my Mom said were poisonous, So that I wouldn’t eat them. An...
A woman named L. Read the book of M. In something less than a house− A stranger’s strange medicine. Despite her scorn, For the word well-worn, The book on...
My child lovingly fashioned a silhouette from dream fragments and broken trances, and wistful moments on a park bench tottering, and behind bars crookedly drawn...
My father, the past. My son, what will be. My spirit, the eternal now. The father forgives, So that the son may yet live Without the burden of folly.