poetry

/ grumpygorman
image: Lars_Nissen (pixabay)

dust in the
ducts,

peering into
moon–

scared to
land..

years spinning
hands.

image: AdinaVoicu (pixabay)
/ grumpygorman
image: Alexey_Marcov (pixabay)

“alright ginger,
send
in

that
master
of madmen”

we’re all ears and
must hear..

“dear beast, who’s
in season?“

dammit he’s
loose
now–

shan’t catch
him

by thinking too
like him,

i smile small
to thank
him..

no
doubt,

we need hear
no more–

“alright ginger,
show him
out.“

image: mohamed_hassan (pixabay)
/ grumpygorman
Clcker-Free-Vector-Images: pixabay

could listen
again–

maybe hear
new,

and not simply
replay
until

tune’s drained
of juice–

hard to hear
truth..

and listen
too.

/ grumpygorman

we were kids
kissing

under haunted
house-

broken glass all
through
the

past got away
with too
much..

too fast.

image: Clker-Free-Vector-Images (pixabay)
/ grumpygorman
image: RyanMcGuire (pixabay)

nothing within
reach
or

high for
me,

all flyers find
home

by storm’s
end,

thru shadow script’s less
than noble
slips–

by
rise of
own wings

to
tame winds.

/ grumpygorman
image: hobim (pixabay)

said she liked
puzzles,

so that’s
all

suitors brought
in turn..

single file ’round
the block,

last hope in
line

offers
nothing but

an honest
hand–

for pleasure
walk..

and hear her
talk,

nowhere too
deep,

just a walk.