Friday Nite Poetry: Witness

Sometimes it is best to remember that good poetry comes from just observing the world around you. The light shining on a table, steam rising from a cup of coffee, or the way a snow bank looks a little like a mountain range. These things can remind you, and more importantly, inspire you. Sometimes verse comes from the strangest places, and often, that kind is the best kind.


Mountain ranges in miniature
line the village streets
I feel a little like a god
flying over them
imagining a world of wonder
in the gray stained
snow crevasses

I fly
I do
but not like a god
but a wisp
carried away
on winds of memory

I am five again
and the mountains tower
even over my father’s head
I am eight
and we explore the range
that rings Maynard’s parking lot

I am a child of the North
and so many of my stories
begin and end
in those miniature white canyons

I am a child of the gray seasons
to bring color to the world

I am a child of Winter
making that long
lonely march
to more memories
carved in stone


Straight From Babel

Tangled chatter
worms around
the shop
words twisting over
and through
each other

Whispered discussions
trumpeting proclamations
giggled announcements
and groaning complaints
trip over one another
creating an odd
white noise

Bitter old men
and young idealists
wrap their tongues
and sometimes their minds
around the troubles of the world
desperately trying to lay blame
because they sure cannot set it
at their own feet

Frazzled mothers
and excited daughters
worry over minutiae
the better to hide
their real problems
high walls of uncertainty
impossible to scale

All these and more
struggle to be heard

All these and more
try not to hear

All these and more
Ask the questions
and avoid the answers

No one needs an answer
only asking
for just a moment
to have a voice


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