For Tom


The sky's grown murky. I don't care.
It's getting late, and I am drinking,
Sitting on the deck to see if murk
Will give birth to some rain. One thousand
Things remain undone. The backyard
Lawn's savanna now. The patio's
Torn up and pocked, almost an
Monument to cities everywhere
In Syria, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan,
The places Uncle Sam has gone.
I can't follow. I can't lift my leg and not
Feel searing pain. I sleep. I drink.
I take narcotics in the AM when
I work, and dream of walking
Easily, of ambushing that bastard,
Sam, of mowing that small patch
Of grass, and then retreating
To a chair for rum and Coke,
And reason to be writing poetry.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2018-05-19 at 00:56

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Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
As the years of our lives pass, we tend to look at things in a different way. That which was so important once, now doesn't matter, like, "the thousand things that remain undone," and the frustration of the motives of places like Syria, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan, become clearer and we feel how futile it all is: Life.

Wonderful work. Keep writing, Larry. You inspire novices like me to write.


ken d williams The PoetBay support member heart!
Read very good. I can epavice. With, sate of my abode, inside of it! Unfolding events in my home town and surrounding distick, UK , world. I find my self all too often, in a rage, frustrated, nothing I can do! Except, sit hear, and type, out, words, a work appears!