Daily Archives: April 10, 2004

The Garden Seat: a cyhydedd hir

A quiet place to sit,
think what I see fit,
and watch the birds flit
around the yard.

Not so much to seek
(a crumb, so to speak)
to make each work week
that much less hard.

And yet, through each day
small things block the way
and my time to play
cedes to something.

But when time is spare
I seek out that chair
and just sitting there
do great nothing.

10 APR 2004

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Saturday’s Child: a curtal sonnet

This morning, when I rose from bed, the street
was all abustle with the weekend’s chores.
Fresh coffee brewed, I filled my favorite mug
and sipping slowly, found the flavor sweet.

The cat was chasing lizards ’round the floor;
I shook my head and gave my wife a hug.
Outside, the sounds of lawn and garden tools
and stereos blended in a dull roar;

I shuffled, still half sleeping, ‘cross the rug,
whispered silent curses at these fools
and shrugged.

10 APR 2004

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Decoration Day: a complaint or lamentation

Bang the drum and sound the horn!
Wash and press the uniforms.
From each window flags are flown;
now the troops at last come home.

Proud young sons and daughters, too;
freedom’s torch they’ve borne for you.
Through the world they’ve marched and roamed;
now the troops at last come home.

In the face of unseen dangers
they went forth, and fought with strangers,
giving of their flesh and bone.
Now the troops at last come home.

For the cause of pride and nation,
each assumed their assigned station
in the name of some unknown;
now the troops at last come home.

Trusting in their leaders’ visions,
never doubting their decisions;
each one thinks now of their own.
Now the troops at last come home.

Used as pawns in plays for power,
missions logged in countless hours
’til last reveille is blown;
now the troops at last come home.

Cheered and thanked and decorated,
from the headlines they have faded;
in battalions, or alone,
now the troops at last come home.

Limousines in long lines creeping,
sounds of countless children weeping.
No more battlefields to roam;
now the troops at last come home.

Bang the drum now, slow and loud!
Drape your flags as funeral shrouds,
speak in low and somber tones:
now the troops at last come home.

Fold the flags and thank the grieving
for their service, for believing;
wrapped in concrete, wood and chrome,
now the troops at last come home.

10 APR 2004

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