Ken Nye Poems

Coming out of the pond, no need to towel off
in this warm afternoon sun.
I'll hike up through the orchard
on Grandpa’s favorite trail.
...

Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass,
Of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not;
...

My mother is 89.
She has Alzheimer's.

She lives in an assisted living
...

They have kissed their parents goodbye,
moms wiping tears,
dads trying to hold it together.
Alone in the hotel room,
...

Even in the hushed silence
of this road through thick woods
the bike's' rubber tires
are almost soundless.
...

A knock at the door, late morning.
The dog makes a racket, but the two stand their ground.
They are on God’s business.
...

I get the same response that I’ve always gotten:
a look of excitement and joy,
immediate effort to rise and head for the car.
But rising is now a major project,
...

No matter where I find it,
clear water flowing over pristine sand and gravel
always stirs in me a longing for wilderness,
empty forests, dark and wonderfully forboding,
...

Millions lie before her.
She overlooks most, but here is one
that warrants inspection.
Something in the smooth roundness of the glistening wet stone
...

Crossing America,
I see small nations within its cities,
neighborhoods of people
who dream of happiness in myriad languages, and
...