Poetry


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Fifty – it’s sounds old. It sounds middle aged – middle aged? Like knights of old? Armor?

Well, I turned 50 today.   And I wonder as I look out with dimished eyes how this will change my outlook.  Will I have a different view of life?  How do you feel about life?

Dave

It’s like 80 on the free-way,
watching the life blur
agglomoration of houses,
havens and yards,

Somewhere,
marriages split,
water runs
gardens wilt
and slow drip
of gas
tastes water

Somewhere,
teens taste
love’s first bite
behind
the broken tractor.

Smallness
only appears
small
at this speed.

15 July 09

It’s a strange start,
a sleeping person
turned ill

then the transformation.
My name to Doctor
my time gone,
my house a ward.

I’m wanted with water,
soup,
paper,

and it goes on.
Chores still needed,
life goes on,

and the hospital
repeats.

That was me,

the one they show in the video

falling at Normandy

right into the surf.

Each time you see it,

You wonder.

Whoes son was that?
Whoes father, brother?

And we go by it.

A portrait of death.

I can’t bring him back

I can make breath

fill him again.

That portrait

is the door hanger

at the death gate.

Here it here,

ring and enter

where faces end,

where humor ceases

the blest leave

And belief?

Well, we could hope

make a wager

no matter how meager

that he would have some share,

Who knows? Who knows?

But that photo war ghost

plays over and over,

the waves washing the body

the gate and the door

living among ruins.

27 June 09

I don’t understand it.
Those tolerant aren’t
Continuing to attack
continuing hate
they blame others for.

Strange.

And those wishing life?
Wish it for every thing
except newborns
(They don’t count)

What phase is this?
Will I awake on the
non-digital side?
See the slowing clock
light slowly turning red,
and wonder why
the edge of the universe
is so close
all along.

Maybe I’ll see it,
maybe that non-digital
is filtered different
and life really counts-
all life.

20 June 09

My hands are in the garden,
waking flowers and yards
of old rotted leaves
left over
for bugs
to hide.

Some are eyelash soft
darting away in a hurry
others simply blink their eyes
and look at me-

coffee?
no coffee?
what’s the rush.

But regardless,
I’m waking
and tipping the coffins
of deceased plants
everywhere,
pulling their little bodies out
and dropping in my morgue bag

their last resting place
my trash.

What ever secret they knew
is gone now,
what ever whimper of sadness
their leaves might know
how water made them laugh
and wind whipped their children
loose to fly-

yes, it’s vague and strange
altogether
mixing this soil with
the sudden red blood
from my hand.

3 May 09

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