|
The Mists of October |
Alone in bed, lost
In the mists of October
Faces without names
Condense then fade, leaving words
Which become skeleton keys…
Oct. '65
Losing my virginity in the heat
Of the hay loft…for the next 40 days
Doing it whenever and whereever
We could…we planted more than corn and beans.
Oct. '67
She was two decades older…I was sure
I had nothing to learn…she changed my world.
What I did for her rose garden, she did
For my body, mind and soul…we both grew.
Oct. '69
Gone is the bright innocence of high school…
John Wayne, Sgt. Rock, Gallant Men, Combat,
Mom’s apple pie and the girl left behind…
I lost my youth and hearing…others died.
Oct. '70
War’s insanity behind me, I walk
As a stranger through a strange land, bitter
Wounded, frightened…from the fire to the pan…
Save the platitudes…either way, I fry.
I have healed much since then, but on nights such as
This, when my thoughts and memories bounce and rebound
Like a crate of ping pong balls struck by an express
Freight train and skeletons jangle keys that open
Locks with the sound of snapping bones, I cry.
copyright 2003
E.W.
Richardson |
