Jack Growden Poems
|1.||The Captain's Brutal Night||3/21/2013|
|3.||The Brutal Full-Back||7/26/2013|
|8.||What Is A Week?||4/28/2014|
|17.||Clearer In My Dreams||7/15/2014|
|24.||Born Years Too Late||4/10/2014|
|26.||Poetry Of Motion||7/31/2014|
|30.||Brelles - French Version||7/27/2013|
|32.||Fall From Grace||3/27/2014|
|34.||If You Forget Me||1/4/2014|
|36.||Four White Walls||2/27/2014|
|37.||Owing To Ink||4/5/2014|
|38.||Walk In My Shoes||3/28/2014|
From a rolling hill in one green Essex field,
A splendid, sweeping vista was suddenly revealed.
Rays of sunlight appeared marking the advent of dawn,
Invigorating the gully below on this placid morn.
The autumn calm was quite crisp, but pleasantly mild,
As I drew a deep breath and simply smiled…
Ambling down the path that led to the glen below,
I caught the gentle scent of an English meadow.
Well-worn, the trail continued to meander
Through lush pastures of flowered oleander.
Towering modestly among stood the odd foreign teak,
Which by the tree further...
Alas, it has been a season of yawns and weary sighs,
Each and every morning met with dreary eyes;
The sluggish shuffles; the weight of the world upon;
Several moons have waned since hope has shone.
Far too many dawns have passed, it must be confessed,
Which have been welcomed without an inkling of zest.
All that remains is a grim incessant strain
As you see all your vigour trickle down life's drain.