A man sets out
with his fishing rod.
He isn't really fishing
but it makes a good excuse
...
Deltas and diamonds,
boxes and dragons;
on this perfect day
a congregation of kites
...
My grand daughter lets the
curtain fall back in place,
wondering out loud who in
their right mind would
...
I am wild with autumn,
transparent with color,
unable to define either myself
or the landscape,
...
2017 - About to begin the adventure of a lifetime at the ripe old age of 65. Have applied to and been accepted at the Lesley University low-residency MFA creative writing program with a concentration in poetry. The next two years are going to be a lot of hard work but I am looking eagerly forward to learning new things and interacting with poets of all types and ages. Check my website, yankeepoet.com to follow my progress.)
Grafton Pond
A man sets out
with his fishing rod.
He isn't really fishing
but it makes a good excuse
to do what men do
when they are
pretending not to.
Anyway, it's that time of day
when the evening sun
makes the pond blaze,
it's a scene out of
a coffee table book,
young lovers in kayaks, their
silhouettes framed against
a deepening color of sky.
He ties a spinner on,
casts far out
into
the perfect flatted calm.
I am not a philosopher, he thinks,
but this life of mine
is a fishing line,
monofilament,
barely seen,
stretching into depths
where hidden thoughts
nibble at the edge
of consciousness.
Sunset peaks
and fades into oblivion.
The man sighs
and reels in.
Fish-less he
packs his tackle and walks towards his pickup.