Edmund V. Strolis Poems

A land without borders, trampled and tattered
Disdain for all of those who feel this should matter
A rainbow of people whose allegiance is bought
Noble people of color disdain those who are not
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There is something almost spiritual about the road
The dirt road after a rain, puddles trace the years
Ribbons of water settle unsplashed and unwanted
Rusty brown, washed clean of the travelers scars
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Poets are like mimes, tolerable in small doses
Flowery this and melancholy that, gets old
The poet's world is too syrupy for me
Sometimes a flower is just a flower
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Dressed in black from head to toe
A 21st century Che Guevara wannabe
With tunnel vision and an I-Phone
Tiny apple rotting under a family tree
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Raise the white flag, mothball the cannon
The fix is in the die is cast
Cast over shirking shoulders
There will be no victory march
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How many rivers, creeks and lakes he had traveled.
His first memory was of the fire and his first canoe.
Birch covered vehicle, wondrous freedom finder.
With father's rifle at his side, beaver pelts to trade.
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There was a time that I still remember well.
When she held a crowd within her gesturing hands.
A colorful exotic untamed bird somehow landed here.
So vibrant and loved even by the farmer's wives.
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Upon entering the room I froze
He stood staring outside, oblivious to me
His once strong hands, soft upon the sill
Lost in a solemn peaceful trance
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Slip into a comic playful phase
Dazzle them with explosive greetings
But make sure the fire is from the heart
Pull them in and glow, then share the stage
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Don't feign surprise to find the cafe has closed
Once this was your favorite place, so fresh so new
Brightly painted, loud vibrant sidewalks calling
What stimulating sensations lay in store for you
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