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Category Archives: Poetry

The Nature of American

It was the busy season,

Late June.

At a fireworks store,

Bright, colorful, American,

My work.

People shuffle in and ask for

Something loud.

People shuffle in and say,

We wanna celebrate.

People shuffle in and tell me,

Why I’m from Massachusetts.

Fireworks are illegal there

They don’t care.

People shuffle in and I tell them,

Have fun breaking the laws

Of the country in which

You celebrate.

People shuffle in and tell me,

You look stressed.

I went to buy candles

To sooth me.

I found one labeled

Freedom.

It smelled like cotton.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 

Watchin Ball

I sit in front of my moderately sized TV,

Staring at the intricate motions

Of the football players in presnap.

“They are going to run the ball.”

Id say, deciphering the formation,

The motions,

The quarterback’s demeanor.

Then they ran the ball,

And people would stare at me,

As if I had told them the end of a book they were reading.

One team scores,

The wrong team in my opinion,

And the world must be falling.

“Wow, we are going to lose”

I’d say; expressing the anxiety

The gut-wrenching feeling

Of caring far too much.

Again stares befall me

And I knew the words behind them,

“They are still up two scores…”

I knew they wanted to say.

After the game,

I was not happy.

“They won!”

They would scream at me.

But I thought you would understand.

The defense was bad,

You’d see it, I would think.

But you gave me the same response

The one I should expect but don’t

“It was only the first game, we’ll see…”

Luckily this was a textual response

Sparing me from your tone.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 

The pick up

Here is where I wait for you,

The smell of evergreen filling my nostrils

Yet toxic fumes are produced

While I stay nestled safely inside

Siting,

Staring

At your front door

From the gray monstrosity on wheels.

My gaze flows

From the empty gray upholstered passenger seat

To the dirt path in front of the stairs

Of which lead my eye down your hilly yard

And to the façade of your green,

Modern,

Home.

Again,

I stare

Waiting for that movement

Barely visibly behind the screen door.

Impatience befalls me

My stare breaks.

I look to my left

At the home of your former lover

Taking note of a car

I have never seen before

Shiny,

Baby blue,

A prius,

An Earthsaver

Getting forty miles to the gallon.

Is it hers?

Trying to save the earth?

Remind me to ask you.

Impatience runs rampant

As if we were back in high school again

And we might be late to school

As we had been so many times.

I proceed into my pocket

Searching for my phone

To call and hurry you along

As I do every time impatience compels.

But there you are,

That slight,

Almost invisible,

Movement behind the screen

Before you appear.

Finally.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 

His Farm

Here is a bland field,

And here is where I write.

Along route twenty eight is a farm,

Broken and disheveled,

History saving its fragile frame.

Here is where I write,

Not because it inspires,

Not because it is oh so interesting.

Here is where I write,

Under a cloudy sky,

Draping the abandoned in further misery.

Here is where a great man wrote,

When the abandoned was occupied,

When the field was tended,

When the sun was out,

Robert Frost wrote

Here,

Where I write.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 

Blue

A sulking homeless man,

In a city on a bright day;

The wind blowing my face,

Accosting the free branches who sway;

Sitting alone, waiting,

For people who forget you;

Breathing in sea salt,

Or the soft air of a morning dew;

The waves of an ocean,

And the sound of their crash;

The serenity of lying under the stars,

On a field of lush grass;

The face of a little child,

On those commercials we all dread;

Watching the face of man,

We told to lead because of what he said;

Makes you wonder what to do,

In a world ever so blue.

 
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Posted by on September 14, 2011 in Poetry

 
 
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