While driving my car on a cold winter's evening.
Saturated circular perfection
not yet pale in November's setting sky.
No sparrow folds its day
with feathery tales of frost and fame.
Once the grass was tall to the green
and nights carried windy messages
across a perfect turtle sky.
Now the glass is trimmed
to a final passing hour
and mercury motion is down.
Boldly I defy the cry of dead birds
that roll across the highway bed
where I circle with wheels to go
and no more shall my prayers
fall so in love so easily
with a saxophone on the car radio.
Regal rising above hushed trees
bare with dark stiff tongues
etched with true blue belonging.
I have foretasted that image
long before the word
circumcised it.
Poetry by Bob
Read 876 times
Written on 2005-11-17 at 10:30
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The moon
Saturated circular perfection
not yet pale in November's setting sky.
No sparrow folds its day
with feathery tales of frost and fame.
Once the grass was tall to the green
and nights carried windy messages
across a perfect turtle sky.
Now the glass is trimmed
to a final passing hour
and mercury motion is down.
Boldly I defy the cry of dead birds
that roll across the highway bed
where I circle with wheels to go
and no more shall my prayers
fall so in love so easily
with a saxophone on the car radio.
Regal rising above hushed trees
bare with dark stiff tongues
etched with true blue belonging.
I have foretasted that image
long before the word
circumcised it.
Poetry by Bob
Read 876 times
Written on 2005-11-17 at 10:30
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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 by Bob Latest textsI seldom walkthere’s a rumor there will be no full stop so many regrets who am I |
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