Old Poetry brought back to life...

And now...by special request of Matt...my old poem:


WOODPECKER



He

Hangs around

In trees all day

Making those toy machine-gun sounds
Poppity-popping the succulent ants,

Red and black,

That flee along canyons

In the weathered bark like

Residents of some sci-fi

Town running madly down

Crowded boulevards

Escaping the

Wrath of

Godzilla.

Returning to poetry

Father died.
Mother died.
Aunts and uncles followed.

As I pursued the dream
of living the good life
a whole generation passed away.
A limitless source
of knowledge and experience
of strength and love
cascaded down the well of time.

My buffer zone is gone.

The only barriers
between me and my mortality
are the whims of fate
and the choices I make.

And chosing becomes
a more somber task
when age's wisdom
displaces youth's possibilites.