Poetry: Birthday

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Birthday candles being lit

We honored the day with bottles of wine,

Gifts, and never enough conversation.

It was his twenty-seventh, maybe her

Forty-fifth, or perhaps it was someone’s

Sixty-second. That would be the hardest,

Reminding us that life is too often

Measured in sixty-second increments.

I wonder why we measure it at all:

What does it matter what year it occurred

Or which day of the week the thing happened

Or how many minutes slipped our fingers?

Time is relentless only when you slip

Out of the moment and into your fear,

Only when you make life a statistic.

 

 

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Poetry: Regrets

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Sparrow

The tiny sparrow, defenseless against

The wind, a victim of her own choosing,

Sang loud and long in defiance of guilt

That flowed through her veins like rough opium.

Denial proved the case: regrets still hung

Around her quivering throat, her frail neck,

Garlands of bloodstained rubies with her prints

Brutally unmasked against the hard gleam.

I have learned from the timbre of her voice

To live in perpetual discomfort

With these useless emotions and accept

That my regrets will continue to play

The role of unwanted, unloved partner

As long as I hold on to human life.

 

Photo Credit: © Izanoza | Stock Free Images &Dreamstime Stock Photos

Poetry: The Choice

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On occasion, one comes to understand

That life as a fictional character

Leads to an empty pit, and the effort

To remember the lines corrodes the soul.

In these rare moments of blessed darkness,

One is faced with a choice: to tell the truth

Or let it ride. One could lead anywhere,

The other to the bottomless cavern.

As you consider the choice, images

Of faces turned and sounds of sighs pull hard

In one direction, demanding you call up

The courage to deny them attention

If you have any real intent to learn

The hard part of acting without a script.

 

Photo: © Duey | Stock Free Images & Dreamstime Stock Photos

Poetry: Idle Freedom

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The somnolent sun tosses amber light

To the twisty trees flush with rich, green leaves,

That saunter to the light as if they were

Snagging a lazy fly ball. Water flows

Weakly under an indifferent breeze

That feels as if it had just awoken

From an afternoon nap. In a few months

These images will vanish as the sun

Becomes a useless ball, a heartless joke,

The trees stripped raw, the leaves a sad carpet,

The water suspended in time, the breeze,

Mad with tense wakefulness, will change its name.

Huddling by fires, we will damn cold winter

And long for warm nights of idle freedom.