Behind The GlassI sit here
Reminiscing on a time
Locked away forever behind the glass
I see endless green lawns...brilliant dark green
Under eternal sunshine.
See there the old men, still strong in their late middle age,
As they pause under the cool shade of towering maples.
On the lawn, some children play croquet, laughing as they swing the mallet.
And I cannot reach them.
My shouts are reduced to a mere whisper on the fragrant breeze...one child turns as if to hear something, there is a twinkle in his eye, then he returns to the game, the moment forgotten already.
I scream out to gain the attention of my grandfathers and their friends, but to no avail. Granddad lights his pipe, drawing in a puff, then chuckling as he exhales, listening to a buddy's tales.
I want to tell them...there is danger coming. Not for them, but for us in today's world. That we need them to stay awhile longer.
Granddad is reclining on his lawn chair, legs crossed, drinking a cold beer, unaware of what lies ahead.
The wars you
This Is A Poem Without...This is a poem without wheels.
Or ribbons or bears or rubber ducks
Or squeaky dog toys.
This is a poem without lollipops.
Or burnt sugar apples or cinnamon frog legs
Or baloney with applesauce and chocolate syrup.
This is a poem without dj's.
Or laughing clowns floating in rivers or an annual convention
Of walrus Elvis impersonators.
This is a poem without shears.
Or snapdragons or peanut butter sculptures of Richard Nixon
Or salmon-flavored wallpaper.
This is a poem without carpet salesmen.
Or a 1985 East German Trabant. Or an accordion
In a fish tank filled with charcoal.
This is a poem without reruns of Welcome Back, Kotter!
Or naugahyde from a 1970s couch. Or styrofoam at the bottom of a landfill
In East Overshoe, Oklahoma.
This is a poem without ketchup.
Or a genuine zirconia ring on QVC. Or paint residue on a chop shop
Floor in Miami.
This is a poem without drama.
Or page 471, Article 3, Paragraph B, Sub-Paragraph 2 of the Indonesian Tax Code.
Or a snowfall of ammonia and nitroge