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Posts Tagged ‘Poem’

The world was always beautiful.

Snow was pristine,

Summer leaves, verdant green.

Fall was pumpkins and spice

And spring was when the tulips came.

A butterfly was a wonder to chase

Through a yard, like a cat stalking prey.

And the roses, carefully tended

By my grandmother’s wrinkled hands,

Her blue sweater hanging off her shoulders.

.

Trees were to be climbed,

Apples to be eaten and cheese

was something suck from the fridge

When no one was looking.

Catching lightning bugs or

Building snow men

Was the chief mission in life

And we thought little of the time

we spent. Instead

rushing,

always rushing,

to grow up.

.

Now the snow has lost its shimmer

Turning to a dull grey slush too soon,

Though the snow seldom comes.

Summer burns hot, the sun in my

eyes, and in my breast taking

away my breath.

Spring is damp and the knee I scraped

on that tree when I feel is no longer

pleased, nor in fall when

the cold shorter days take the leaves

that I now must rake.

.

The flowers no longer bloom the

way they once did, as now I

notice the falling petal,

the dying leaf.

Now my hands are more like hers,

wrinkled in ways I never imagined

with blue lines staring back at me.

I have that sweater now

And pull it just a bit tighter.

.

Looking up I see the tree I used

to climb, and for that moment

relive the glory of youth, a smile escapes

unwittingly.

 

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Fall Walk

How gentle lie the clouds

On a canvas of blue,

Floating along my eternity.

A single ray of bright light shines

Upon the birch, now almost leafless

And naked before fall.

I snuggle myself into the season,

Yet another one passed

And await winter’s judgement.

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Ghost of the Living

The step is a little slower,

The glimmer that once sparkled now a little dull.

Age has stooped the figure once so proud and tall.

When he speaks, its a little more softly

And the hands, worn with worry and work

Are now crooked from the pain.

The dark hair has turned ice white

But the fierceness still burns inside.

He’s still in there somewhere,

Even if he doesn’t always recall where.

The pain is now mostly ours,

For, now, only we remember.

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Sorrow

In the deepest recess

Where shadows hide,

The faded memories.

What tales are told

And reconstructed,

Tinged with sorrow.

Good-byes never said,

Nor ever wanted.

Both for living and dead.

That place that haunts us.

 

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Quiet Reflection

The air brushes my cheek

As I sit by the glass lake.

Reflections of the present

Marching by…

A bird,

A butterfly

A white cloud.

A simple touch

Would ripple the water.

So I reach out with my mind,

Into the stillness.

Feeling the cool water

Inhaling the fresh summer air,

Dreaming as the sun kisses my skin.

The torrent of my mind stills,

Until it too sits quietly.

Devoted to the nothingness.

No sirens.

No screams.

No pain.

Just blissful emptiness.

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On Feathered Wings

On feathered wings,

The old year sails

Into the darkness of history.

And I stare at the cold sky

Star twinkling.

The majestic awe of insignificance.

The change where no change has happened,

Except perchance my own time.

Another few grains through

An hourglass.

And I know mine grow shorter.

But my hope remains

Like time itself,

Eternal.

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Perfect shape, sitting

On the sidewalk where I roam

Fallen from heaven.

.

I stop and ponder

Wondering where you’ve traveled.

Only to fall here.

.

So small and precious

Founder of lakes and oceans,

Forming mighty stream.

.

Yet sitting here now,

Waiting for the clouds to fade,

In silent repose.

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