Steven S. Walsky

Two days have passed,
I find her glass.
Still half full,
waiting
...

I was born to love a Southern girl,
blond hair, black hair, brown hair,
straight or curled,
I was born to love a Southern girl.
...

i know what i may do
visit the black swans anew
if still they glide upon the lake
...

Bobby said that the clown died yesterday,
Old Willie was his name.
Even though we’d miss his act,
the circus played just the same.
...

the rusted metal of bridges now trackless
the steel skeletons seen through un-paned portals of dirty,
cracked brick abandoned factories
the aged wooden, derelict outbuildings
...

I thought of you today
in a most interesting way
not that you are ever missing from my thoughts
for your unselfish beauty fills my heart
...

The darkness of night so deftly creeps upon us
incasing each of us
in its velvet softness
...

March drags the days along
a slow progression
winter's echo near
spring's minuet playing out its contradictions
...

Each time I hear a bird sing,
see a flower bloom,
feel the warmth of the sun,
my mind drifts among the clouds,
...

Are not the flowers more joyous
not for their beauty alone,
more beautiful they are
because their uniqueness does shone.
...

Somewhere
in this old town,
somewhere
on a quiet street,
...

Growing up around all kinds of critters,
sure I have been bitten
by dogs and cats, a pet alligator, and even a
girl who with me was smitten.
...

He said he was once in the Army,
a paratrooper to be exact.
Had served with the American Second Division,
'the ones with the Indian head patch.'
...

i saw an old man today
he was all of ninety years
gray hair and whiskers did grow
round his ears
...

I’ve come across a wondering man
his vestments were full of holes
and around his neck he wore a knitted scarf
to keep out the rain and cold
...

I took my love for you
down from the storage closet shelf
the place in the spare bedroom that lingers
in darkness
...

Life is not a single canvas
across which the palette
of existence plays out;
the days, years, the joys, the tears.
...

If wooden ships could sail once more
to far off lands
to distant shores
her billowing white hands would reach out
...

the leaves are changing color now
soon they will lose hold of their tree
to fall twisting turning dancing downward
till they reach mother earth from where they came
...

God is feeding the flowers
and the rain is beating a tattoo on my window
its almost dark
not quite dark
...