David Whalen Poems

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Bare branches clicking together
Winter snapping it’s fingers
To a song composed by Nature
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You may not seem
To be a hunter
But like most people…
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Sights seen through infant’s eyes
Every sight a new surprise
Eyes gaping wide, eyebrows rise
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Blur of pastels,
on coarse burlap canvas
Manic pastiche
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Could it be
That you still love me
And if so
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Sometimes when I see
The smile of a child
Or perceive the look of love
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Crisp…Crisp the night!
‘Pon cheeks as white as snow
Crazy quilt of rimed patterns
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Fog so thick that one could almost…
Part it with one’s finger
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Checkerboard floors
Wood and brass
Tall muntined windows
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The path I’ve taken
The one I’ve trod
Is a path forsaken
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