selected past writing at 42opus
there comes a time in which, no matter how important poetry may be, it seems more important to go out and buy throw pillows.
Towards the setting sun the two thus went on their journey…
The antiques on the wall were real, not reproductions like you see in chain joints these days. In fact, even the seating was antique: scarred tables from long-demolished hotels and diners, railcar berths, an old-timey elevator.
At the turnpike a doe lies stiff
along a median of dry grass. Over her black
nose and eyes, an occasional fly
stirs. Summer is here.
25 September 2008 | poetry
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;