John Stetson Poems

The brindled drop tine bull
Brings his herd along the fence
He steers the steers and leers at me
His look not quite intense
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The Scissor Tale
John W. Stetson
04/19/2018: 40
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I did not sing today.
I walked long,
But there was no song
As I went about my way.
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Buddy Blue visits, of an afternoon.
He flits from picket to picket
before darting to the blade.
To snack?
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Are we huggin' or bumpin' or shakin'
There's a pox on me if I'm mistakin'
I don't want to leave you there quakin'
If we're huggin' or bumpin' or shakin', huggin' or bumpin' or shakin'
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O, the language of caves is silence.
It's a tongue that everyone knows.
Cause when the soul's empty, a shout can't get out
Of the Cave of Winds That Can't Blow.
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Song for an estranged daughter 02/04/14 13: 10

The lone wolf is a myth we see because we want to see it
The island is a mystery because we want to be it
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Poetry society meeting exercise 05/08/08

In the small town up the road from the farm where I grew up,
the library was in the town hall,
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It’s Christmas. I’m late! 12/29/04

What Ho! It’s Christmas and time to regale.
We gather together with gifts from the Sale!
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I gave what I thought was a gift, still it remains unacknowledged.
It might have started a rift, but I left it unfollowed.
But not all the wisdom of age is sage, some is sanguine.
Not all perspective has merit, some should suffer abandon.
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