Category Archives: Poems

Ken Greenman Poems

128 Return

the prodigal sun, in blushing red, returns, creeping up to warm his child. he stays a while. then in a similar hue to the mornings embarassment, slips away under cover of darkness.

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127 Mirage

lapping its sand banks, a pool of blue water. breezy cool. palms grow round it, swaying lithe bodies on a low desert dune. There! Straight ahead! No! To the left! Turn around! To the right! Go to it! It’s gone. … Continue reading

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126 Mid-September

off the tip of Fall watching the archer bending his bow sending his shaft to the heart of green splirting out reds splotching trees, spots, covering ground beneath. Soon all is covered with a crusted blook blanket. Dead. Then, coffined … Continue reading

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125 Three old ladies

I stopped at a SENIC VIEW REST STOP in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Was joined by three old ladies sporting around in a red Mustang. They were laughing, joking, as they stared out, over and off the cliff. It was … Continue reading

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124 Chess Match

Once, I played chess with the Old Russian. He offered me the white pawn. I came at him quickly, Kings Knight to Kings Bishop three, Queens pawn to Queen four. He moved slowly,staring agonizingly. Kings pawn to King three, Kings … Continue reading

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123 boathouse

I’m not sure what perfect balance was unbalanced when they built that sturdy little boathouse on the dunes. But the Great Lake didn’t like it so with her waves began to lick it, a lion licking blood from gunshot wounds. … Continue reading

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122 Signed and sealed

Whatever we do to Nature, she will do to us. In whatever we attempt, She will succeed. Of this, at least, we are guarenteed.

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121 A Dare

Rainbows are not real, just watery reflections in the sky, thin crystalin colors in the air. But, I make you a dare: Look at a blackened thundercloud sky, sunlight gleaming behind you. Then, don’t wish to touch with tingling fingers … Continue reading

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120 the swing

living isn’t molded. it grows like oak up and out stretching sunward gnarled, rough, knotted, scared with loves initials, its branches weighted down with two-by ply houses, swings and fraying ropes to run to, grasp, fly free from into the … Continue reading

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119 on the edge

how the green grass grows near the rocks by the railroad tracks. there, where barrels rust, tires rot, ties pile, wire unspools, trash of a rushing world rests last, where the fringe disintergrates, the unhemmed fabric unravels, concrete walls crumble … Continue reading

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