John Lyday Poems
Colorado Small Town Memories
A dog named Pups and a cat named Kitty, together they roam the city. But it’s not really a city, is it? Two blocks of main street is all they visit.
Why I Don'T Write
I sift meticulously amidst the clutter of my rational thought and irrational flutter, where my hidden fissures of knowledge wind. Some words organize and flow off the tongue.
America has traded in his Mercedes For a beat up, General Motors car. It has a fender and door of different colors. It leaks water, burns oil and won’t go far.
David And Goliath
A lithesome youth takes to the field. A stouter heart no man could wield. Alone he stands against a host. In front, a single guard they post,
I visited a garden, smothered in frost and snow, limbs draped with icicles, leaves with frozen glow.
My pencil does not fit the sharpener. Although I can expose a little lead, the tip is flat and wears out quickly. A dull tip pencil can describe my head.
rickety man, rickety house quickly ran, saw a mouse stately woman, in stick hut
I listen to the gurgle of my coffee maker, knowing that my morning will soon end. Daylight is temptation to stop sleeping. Night and day soon begin to blend.
One More Chance (A Villanelle)
Do not leave me because I lost the knack. I’ll learn the tricks of foreplay that are subtle. Give me just one more chance in the sack.
Fallen Fruit Of The Persimmon Tree
I have stowed away my coffee spoons; marching time engulfs my gloom. Once I was the dandelion,
Prayer To Despair
Despair, I cry to you. Comfort me in my sorrow. Clasp me to your sultry breast. Soak me in your tears
The Suicide Of My Young Friend
Jack Acosta died that day. He swung slow with a gentle sway. Around his neck was a bathrobe cord tied around a basement board.
If I Could Write A Cloud
I want to write a poem light and fluffy, with the texture of a cloud, not dark and ominous,
Silence, Sleep And Serenity
Quiet is the brightest sense, stimulating our cognition, prime conductor of maxim's grace, devoid of all restrictions.
Why I Don'T Write
I sift meticulously amidst the clutter
of my rational thought and irrational flutter,
where my hidden fissures of knowledge wind.
Some words organize and flow off the tongue.
Yet so many ideas remain unsung
lost in time in the jumble of my mind.
If I could grasp these elusive tomes,
notes and novels and letters and poems,
perhaps I could write sometime.