FREE VERSE

Free Verse: A type of poetry with no strict meter or rhyme, yet  are recognizable as poetry by the writer's expression, style or use of literary tools such as alliteration, cadence or rhythm.

Morning Hike

The first wisps of morning

peek through faded edges

of my kitchen curtains.

I pull laces tight

on my heavy shoes

and summon my partner

who I find waiting

already at the door.

She dances impatiently

as I attach the leash.

In minutes we are on the road

that winds past my winter worn yard.

Where the blacktop ends,

my life begins.

My footsteps become brisker

my lungs feel renewed

taking in the crisp,

fresh air sweeping from the river

across the tall dry grasses

waving their greeting.

Here I free my joyful dog

to romp and bury her nose

in the layers of leaf

and weed residue.

Her playfulness inspires me.

I laugh and run

as she quickly chases

slyly staying

just out of my reach.

Our progress slows

as we near the river.

I watch the rippling,

burbling water.

Though unseen, I hear

the call of loons

and songbirds trilling

their songs to intimate mates.

We sit together in the sand briefly,

until she ventures out

on her own private exploration.

I allow my daydreams to wander

as the sky puts on a slideshow

of misshapen images.

Reluctantly, my companion

joins me as I turn back

to erase the lighthearted imprints

of my previous footsteps.

Season Change

In a cafe booth

I watch a young mother

cooing to her newborn

with a rather

disheartening realization

that I do not feel

the yearning I used to

to hold my new baby in my arms.

I must have passed through

some portal of age

where time

gently took from me

that maternal yen

and paid me for it

with gray hair

and aching bones.

Then I hear

in that melancholy moment

the chirping voices

of my grandchildren

who shout out greetings

when they see me

and I understand

a little better

the subtle exchanges

our creator designed

and thank him silently

amid hugs and menus.

When A Poet Passes

A book

poised

under soft light

of a Noachian lamp

displayed on a heavy oak desk

Words

brought from mortality

Every rhyme

each iamb

bound by ethereal hands

to bide in harmony

with aged rune

A jacket of brown leather

oiled by placid hands

Pages curled

by pencil calloused fingertips

preserved now for all of time

in heaven’s ambry

Out My Window

One soft maple

towers at the edge of a travel-worn circle drive

surrounded by Chinese elm bushes with lush new hairdos.

A long strip of cultivated earth

contains yellow iris

and soon-to-bloom tiger lilies

working hard to cast out the tenacious, unwelcome blades of grass.

Two recently pruned apple trees,

stand like islands in the grass circle

still fresh with memories

of their gay pink and white adornment

only days ago.

Beyond the circle

lies a winding dead end road

bordered by budding coneflowers

and freckled white Queen Anne's Lace.

.An occasional robin or yellow finch

unknowingly performs for us,

or a squirrel ceases his roam and flashes his tail

at the tap of this window pane,

while I absently search for inspiration

to write of something beautiful

Delusional March

Golden tendrils

from an almost risen sun

paint a widening promise

across the river valley.

The rocky southwestern shoreline

seems to raise

its face

to the radiant presence.

Burbling, impatient water,

though,

casts off the feigned warmth,

wittingly aware

of the whipping wind

sustaining winter's

confident grip.

It swallows,

crossly,

the mendacious beams

that flaunt a shimmering beauty

and carries them downstream

depositing them here and there

between the lapping ripples.

Once Again

Once again

the solemn faces greet me

as I walk

the ponderous stretch to the coffin.

Paying last respects is monstrous;

making one feel helplessly vulnerable,

inadequate.

All of my being aches

for the anguish and sorrow

hovering like ghastly cologne;

unable to be vanquished with words

or embrace.

My age weighs heavy

knowing

I am nearer to tear stained faces of mourners

over my still body

than I care to admit.

Mortality wields a herculean fist

that reflects

from the shiny new casket

and glossy leaves of surrounding bouquets.

With flashes of envy,

I see the youngest eyes,

filled with question and wonder

at the unnatural behavior of loved ones

and strangers;

sensing that something sinister and unspeakable

exists amidst them.

In the silenced room, words are spoken,

music permeates.

My soul is pierced by sobs

repressed

through tissue wrapped fingers

and grief- stricken shudders..

Gravediggers

waiting at the edge of the cemetery

to finish their task,

evoke a sense of resentment

at their callous disinterest

in the proceedings where I stand.

Once again

the cars leave

in much less formation than they arrived.

People stand talking in small groups

around cold headstones.

My shoes

carry away freshly exposed earth

that once gave life

to the lush green grass

of this final resting place.

Tears

The tall white

taper in the

lower sconce trembled

as the door

closed like

it was waving

goodbye As if frozen

I watched the hot

wax tears rolling

downward

silently

thanking it for

making the necessary

motions

Ageless

He doesn’t know

what pose he offers.

My eyes

upon the bent and wrinkled lyrist

echo back to me

my intrusion.

His limp arms

sway slightly as he shuffles

to his accustomed park bench

His fingers delineate

beauty like that he has created

even through their dull arthritic ache.

He opens a baggie

and tosses crumbs to his favored

companions.