Quinn Graw Poems

Walking down the wagon trails
sure thing you aren't reading braille.
Finding the path of the country roads
old stomping grounds have grown cold.
...

When you are riding on the pine
the train blurs the scenery outside.
Inside the car the essence of time stands still
the wheels on the track and the clock
...

The wind is cold
traffic drives by on the highway
one wanders on the trail
softly stepping on old and new grass
...

Don't give a licken
to your chicken
unless you are in the kitchen.
White or dark meat
...

I paint verse with my pen-brush
here there is no rush
to create my world of words.
But on the weathered work table
...

Walk down the trail
the seeder and the tractor
starting to move without fail.
Half an hour
...

The sun is shining above
on a cool, windy Saturday morning
after the Friday night rain
made the garden a muddy rut.
...

Instructions to die
after you spent the life force
hopefully without a divorce.
Take risks, stick your neck out
...

On a private Monday afternoon
the tall grass waving to the last
under the calm, gentle wind beast
the Sun teasing behind clouds
...

South words
popped into my mind
random words
living as a flat lander
...