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.
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.
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.
I mourn in darkness—
memories of dead canines
run in my dreams,
sorrow covered in soft fur,
but then the beach run returns.