M.W. Ketchel Biography

Standing on weary legs,
the pugilist,
with fists raised
moves into the battle
...

The old man stops and exhales life,
sitting down on a park bench, if but for a moment to rest.
He ponders the decades, his many years of strife,
and his heart grows weary in his chest.
...

Barbed wire fences,
Rusted and forgotten,
Wrought of winters’ winds
Abandoned by Providence,
...

Extremities of virtues lost
protrude from wounds
ripped open by winter's frost.
We cast aside heaven's gates
...

Sun's bright rays gently envelope me
as soft tropical breezes roll toward shore.
My mainsail is set for the unknown sea,
and I grow restless, my soul a storm.
...