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Poet's Platform Column | 11 Oct. 07

by Janet Nesler | The Scioto Voice | Wheelersburg, Ohio

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Untitled

There is a room at the top of the stairs
That I haven’t been in for years.
It is now under lock and key
But the light stays on a constant plea.
I remember how the morning sun would let itself in
And below was a view of a beautiful garden
A garden full of roses that once filled beautiful vases
And brought smiles to lovers’ faces.
I often walk up the stairs but I don’t often
carry the key with me anymore
But when I do, I tightly grip in my hand
And wait until time has passed
like the sand in the hourglass’s hand
One day the door will be unlocked and never locked again
And I will once again visit my beautiful garden
I will keep the drapes open and let the sunlight in
And stay until the moonlight sees the day end.

Brent Anderson
Carrollton, TX

 

Untitled

The changing mists of life swirl like eddies all around me.
The vortex that is Time puts me in new company.
No one I once knew do I still know today,
For they have gone, and I have gone another way. 

Once friends, fast friends, bound together strong,
Now I haven’t seen them in ever so long.
I wonder sometimes if they would still recognize
And remember, but probably not, I realize.

Friends today, memories tomorrow.
Once thought with love, now twist with sorrow.
Gone on, moved away, continuing their life,
Far apart from what used to be alive.

I feel like the only constant thing of my world,
But saying that, realize that my life, too, is swirled
With the mists of time changing all around
And realize my feet have long since left my ground.

Only One is constant; One alone is true;
One alone will never leave, never forsake you.
One alone will always be, when the mists have burned away
Only One will never go, and always here will stay.

Kenton Sena
Hebron, KY

 

OCTOBER

If heaven were October

then I would like to die

and spend my days

in autumn haze

wandering through the sky.

 Linda Swift Reeder

Paducah, KY

 

Flight of the Falcon
Derelict sky: a single bird flies.

The winged-scavenger glides,
encircles the center of my area.

Nothing else exists, just this:
deserted grayish-dimension
nothing on the wires, nor ground
no sound, just a bird . . . a man

A mist falls on his outstretched wings
on every feather spread on his mighty back

and as the rain thickened, he repelled it
shed it, like a broken-minded man sheds tears

Motionless flight suddenly shifts

The bird’s glassy, black vision
channels down
upon these emerald
shimmers, and a vacuum culls
his eye to mine, calls my substance to the sky

His panorama becomes my own

yet I still stand in this gray, cool drizzle
to watch him fly away, alone, forgotten

in search of the crystalline . . . azure . . . that left him behind

James Eric Watkins
Milton, KY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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