Johns Poems
Johns Poems
johnpouc
New Poems Page Two
Broken Crayons
Crayons of brilliant colors,
broken, wrappers peeled,
strewn among the memories,
a broken heart revealed.
Drawings of funny faces faded,
colors blended by time,
placed in box of brittle cardboard,
dusty, left behind.
Cobwebs covering things that remains
of a child that once was mine.
I stare into the empty room
where laughter once was heard,
where once was music of the wind
and the melody of a song bird.
I clasp the hand of God,
turn and walk away-
my child would have been
sixteen years old today.
Garden Party
Purple librations, sweet
nectarous ceremony in Shangri-La.
Wisdom of vine ingested, flowing
over deceitful tongue, silencing
threnody for a moment, in vain.
A toast! Glasses kiss one another
with clink of verve, touch lips
in syllabus style,
throat receives truth while
therapeutic bathing washes
away the day.
Like sheep smartly shorn,
old expectations appear
bare, dreams irreverent.
Only the here and now
causes shutter.
New vermilion replaces
old purples as we
think of tomorrow,
reluctant to say good-bye
to the present, knowing
full well it arrives on time,
whilst drops linger upon
insatiable lips,
memory is resurrected from
empty bottles strewn
across the evening.
The Sycamores
When I was young,
the rainbow was a bridge
to sheer delight,
the autumn leaves were little
brown elves
that danced with all their might.
Raindrops strummed
on silver strings,
as the wind a symphony begun,
and the sycamores stretched
their long white arms
with joy to sky and sun.
When I was young.
I’ve come to think differently,
now that I am old.
reality flows beseechingly
and the truth is told.
That rainbow bridges never reach
the shore of wonderland,
that leaves blow swift
with wild despair,
and now I understand,
that rain and wind join in a dirge,
while the sycamores, oh me,
stretch their arms into the sky,
in twisted agony.
From Kentucky Woman by
Pauline Pouch
Clock of Life
Time flows on, despite us,
rarely giving a damn,
constant is the ticking
of life’s second hand.
Each tick gone forever
into the vastness of space,
the clock of life keeps ticking,
forever changing face.
I’ve lived my life and
counted the ticks,
each one a sweet recall,
no sad farewells, my time
has come,
I hear the clock upon the wall,
Now here I am, an old man,
wanting the time to stop,
while there you are a young man,
forever winding the clock.
Johns Poems
johnpouc
