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  • Writer's pictureD. Ellsworth Hoag

A Personal Touch

Some poems reflect actual biographic information. I tend not to write such poems sticking more to poems reflecting the whole of the human experience. That being said the personal poem is probably more heartfelt and easier to pull off.

These poems came from memories randomly recalled, or immediate, or reflected upon in a workshop setting. A writer takes inspiration where he finds it.

Race To Port

The water churned in choppy waves. The sail billowed and the boat sped. "Lower the sails, we approach too fast." The small craft bobs like a fishing float on troubled water. Adrenalin and fear are palpable in the mist filled air. "Avoid the breakwater!"

men soaked and concerned

hands knotted on the tiller

translucent waves dance

Rusty At Eleven

The old dog does not chase the toy

he curls up in his own small bed

his cataract eyes have dim sight

he guides his movement with the walls

and walks with slow and careful step.

His owner no longer a boy

now softly caresses his head

walks him slowly in warm sunlight

carries him when his energy fails

with a secure yet gentle grip.

At his name, dog eyes fill with joy

though only a comfortable thread

not dancing with youth so bright—

and sometimes it takes several calls—

his hearing has taken a dip.

Love ages with darkness and light,

content raises—excitement falls,

patience waxes and fervor slips.

Winter Walk

In the south popcorn clouds dappled with patches of blue

resolving to liquid azure at heaven's azimuth

then developing into layers of slate in the north.

The light was muted winter-bright, a shadow glare,

the distance from the sun gave it a watery effect

an illumination befitting for artistic half-tones.

The mid-morning air was coffee lightly creamed,

brisk but with the edge taken off,

tasting of slightly warmed desert soil.

The poodle by my side was light cream with some tan

and had the texture of fine velvet

a large canine, but gentle and full of love.

A slight burning in my thighs from walking,

a smile upon my face from excellent companionship.

The ambience of contentment bordering on perfection.

Back Pain

The pain sears my back,

a hot shower of spasm.

My mind recoils back,

I sit and await relief,

it returns as an old friend.

Back Pain 2

The back, a tight drum,

it beats with the walk's rhythm

like a second pulse.

It creates my own drum cycle

music of pain's crescendo.

Painful Memory

I mourn in darkness—

memories of dead canines

run in my dreams,

sorrow covered in soft fur,

but then the beach run returns.

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