Definitive, Unsure, Maybe – A Poem by G. S. Katz
definitive
unsure
maybe
god bless you
if you believe
bless you
if you don’t
paper or plastic?
poems
I and Me – A Poem by Roy K. Austin
I am a neighbour
with open gate,
me is a glutton
not pulling his weight,
I am high
like a drifting cloud,
me down below
has the mind of the crowd
filtering, straining,
tangled in knots,
while I like a kite
am free from the lot,
me is the cause
of each scattering part,
I am the grief
of a broken heart,
me is the sport
of a sickening ill,
I am the vulture
devouring the kill,
me is the grasp,
the grunt and the spit,
I am the truth
of a bottomless pit,
me is the sleuth
discovering loss,
I am the meaning
of uroboros.
More at roykaustin.weebly.com.
Everydayism, Connected to Simplicity – A Poem by G. S. Katz
walking my dog
same path everyday
would like to change routes
but she digs in and says no
every morning I see the same workers
they gather in front of the same building
then disperse to the buildings they maintain
“good morning” is all that needs to be said
as you get older you have to be grateful
for the everydayism you rejected in youth
the comfort of everyday tasks
the simplicity that is our personal connection
would have blasted me for writing this 30 years ago
maybe even 20
forced change is sometimes good
but am grateful for the everyday I can hold onto……
Don't Tell Me Your Secrets – A Poem by G. S. Katz
don’t tell me your secrets
don’t want to know
can keep my mouth shut
but who needs the temptation
hate when people say
“can you keep a secret”?
keep it to yourself
because I wont give a crap anyway
I probably sound angry
I’m not
just don’t care about your insignificant rants
are we done here?
Not a Foodie – A Poem by G. S. Katz
like good food
live in NYC
we’ve got the best restaurants here
short of Paris perhaps
but labeling yourself a “foodie”
is pretentious and pathetic
make sure you don’t go into debt
at those restaurants who laugh at you
when you pay the bill remember
it’s food, not gold
no, not a foodie
look in the mirror
are you really sure
you wanna call yourself that?
Winter's Tale – A Poem by Stan Morrison
winter’s tale
three four blankets to keep warm
not the eternal furnace of long ago
remembrance flows through my veins
Marge graced all the years with me
hold her close rekindle the same fire
forever is the winter of our content
We Have Not Forgotten – A Poem by Roy Pullam
It is ten years
The tears have dried
But our poor hearts
Have not found
Their mend
So many memories
Captured
In the black crepe
Of your loss
Still slip back
In a moment
Of ease
Reminding us
Of how bright
Your star blazed
And how
We miss the light
January Morning – A Poem by Roy Pullam
Big, puffy flakes
Drift down like feathers
The wind tossing them
In a crazy zigzag pattern
Frozen confetti
Celebrating the cold
On the ground
An accumulated drift
The pure white sheet
Tucked clumsily
Like a small boy would
Make his bed
The gentle fall
Covering the road
Pure and innocent
In appearance
Hiding future hardships
In the quiet
Of the beauty
Of a morning snow
January 2, 2018 – A Poem by Roy Pullam
My old man bones
Ached this morning
I began
The fight with the cold
I took the ice scraper
Cringing from
The up-the-spine screech
As I scraped
Making a porthole
In the frost
My vision a squint
I drove slowly
Devoid of the total
View ahead
The heater
Spit out cold air
A swoosh of frigid
I had to endure
Until the blower
Picked up heat
It was a short drive
A trip to the grocery
To fill an empty larder
A casualty
Of holiday eating
I navigated the aisles
Choosing fruits and vegetables
A penance
For two weeks of gluttony
I left the warmth
Returning to my cold car
The weather
Making a short drive
A long way home
The Game – A Poem by Roy Pullam
Time is a card shark
Stealing the chips of youth
Pilfering our ambitions
Bending our backs
And our will
Playing with sleight of hand
Where the aces
Are palmed
Leaving the deck
Full of simply survival cards
But we all
Have to play
Taking what
Is dealt
Just hoping for a trump
That will
Lengthen our stay
At the table