JOE POEWHIT Poems

LATE NIGHT POEM - HOLES # 1

Just like that life goes.
Flat nose - pull down hose.
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GOD, your humble servant's praise
thee. Untold glory in your bountifulness.
Richness in your wonderments.
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A paragraph from a book by - Washington Irving - The History of New York - about the fortunes of money, that I am presently reading. I hope it will share some wisdom.

' If we could get a peep at the tally of dame fortune, where, like a notable landlady, she regularly chalks up the debtor and creditor accounts of mankind, we should find that, upon the whole, good and evil are pretty nearly balanced in this world; and that though we may for a long while revel in the very lap pf prosperity, the time will at length come, when we must pay off the reckoning. Fortune, in fact, is a pestilent shrew, and withal a most inexorable creditor; for though she may indulge her favourites in long credits, and overwhelm them with her favours; yet sooner or later, she brings up her arrears, with the rigour of an experienced publican, and washes out her scores with their tears. 'SINCE', says good old Boetius in his consolations of philosophy, 'since no man can retain her at his pleasure, and since her flight is so deeply lamented, what are her favours but sure prognostications of approaching trouble and calamity.'
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Our love is like wine.
Grapes of time, from the vine.
Our heart's crushed within.
Nectar flavor, was our sin.
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The day we forgot GOD.
Tears fell upon shaken sod.
Only to find myself alone.
Empty it was, a hollow home.
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I sit by the open window.
Air flows, yet not so simple.
Days of old seem like forgotten lore.
Maybe only, if I open the door.
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SHELL

There lying on a beach.
Just past mortal reach.
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CHIRPS, the poet sings.
Of lace and trying things.
From cosmic starry heavens.
Dream wonders - loving brethren.
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AN ATMOSPHERE MIXES EFFUSIVE AMOUNTS OF MAN'S

WASTE INTO CHAOTIC TRAGIC CALAMITY:
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Holy day of rest.
Sacred time solemn.
Family time of joy.
Church with it's assembly.
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