Monday Morning Poetry

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The World From His Window /or/ the Wheels In the Wheels Go Round and Round

He sits day by day
gazing beyond the silicon created illusion
searching for something that’s left his mind
a verse, a melody, a memory
like a broken shell beyond repair
in his world of fantasy  laced reality
the old man counts the days
by the hairs caught in his comb
while multi-colored children play games
on little black boxes in the dark
a world, distinct in-distinctions groans
false perceptions push and pull
everything within the senses once vivid
now cheating for a place among
what is seen, heard, felt, and received, rather than perceived
evening and morning greet each other loudly sometimes, quietly others
rather than that burned out marionette
on frayed strings, jerking wildly,
whose dance is without grace
always out of place
being a being, lost in space
if you hear him crying in the night
reliving the battles
the ceremonious washing’s
do not look to close
do not stare to long
his handlers have left scars of great depth
the old man is splintered and cracked
with a stench of wood burned in the fire
and soaked in water, you know
the odor I speak of, a perfume not
sold in the likes of ancient department stores
not to be found for any price these days
but this (that) old man
he stays right there, oblivious to his own care
though quite mindful of a stare
despite the new world disorder
thrust full force upon that one or sum
full of brows, silvery and thin
your thoughts of him
might be dim
he is just there in that chair
filthy, stinky, useless, unknown creature
whose presence only serves,
among men and women,
in this age and ages past
befitting a scare
but every now and again,
unseen until that shell has been split open
and broken
a single ray of light will give a glimmer,
a shimmer
and beyond the shell, beyond the smell
those who, still can be still, find a pearl
In the Makers hands
what to us is beyond repair
is made new, clean, and a treasure rare.

A Saturday Evening Post / Poem

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The Morning Call

with cowlick stood straight and tall
white robed acolyte
look down young man at first altar call

rush of incense and the cool stone below
sing the rung bells
city raised Bronx being the borough

 

THE GROVE

WITHERED CROPS WE / FOLKWRITINGS

Some Fourth Poetry

nonukes1

THE ALL AMERICAN KID FROM NYC

 

A New York City Fourth

before sticky notes
baseball cards and wacky packs
covered my eyes
brown wrappers
concealing the evil parts
born on magazine racks
a New York City Fourth

bottle rockets and bricks
beer and Southern Comfort
cover the park at sunset
bright eyed youth
captivated extra curricular education
browsing puppy love
a Bronx New York Fourth

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Welcome Home

friendly bones have left me now
the slightest movement cringes
manila folders filled with blood
mount for their final charges
this circus war in hospitals
a comedy of strangers
all hail the ones dressed in white
while we face all the danger
muscles fail, my body flails
writing the final pages
a corporate sung epitaph
dependent on your wages
mebx

[ stepping out through the bark of my dwelling ]

stepping out through the bark of my dwelling
a brief glance above the sky bellows deeply
distant stars strain through the black night misty
in darkness an echo sparking my soulishness
contrasting my manish ways nature exhales lightly
blowing the awful scent of my frailness westerly
out toward the rising pyre fiery which is mankind