John Gallar

(San Jose, California)

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Best Poem of John Gallar


Sticky fog patches bedew squinty eyes,
Faint wail of skylark falls deep into heart...
Smoke from burned quitch grass licks face with a tart,
Leaves whipper prayers falling from the skies...
Autumn begins its mystery design...
What autumn is it? Is it 39?
Innocent shadows crawl over the trees,
Children catch sun spots in a morning play;
Suddenly rattling...Bullets spatter clay...
Do they pretend that they gap for the breeze?
Who are these children? No, they are not mine...
What autumn is it? Is it 39?
Panic and anguish; Alone, all alone!

Read the full of 1939