PoetryPause Blog – Matthew Ashbrook

Archive for September, 2017

Perspective

by on Sep.26, 2017, under Uncategorized

See the little arrow?
The little tiny dot?
The sea of black and blue
The little bitty spot?

The foreground is a spaceship,
And Saturn’s golden rings;
The dot the earth and home to
The mightiest of kings.

The conqueror and conquered,
The wealthy and the pawn,
And every petty grievance
That mankind ever spawned.

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Grandparents

by on Sep.24, 2017, under Poetry

Novelty eggs
On the ceiling above
An old-fashioned stove
Where cooking was love
Where bacon from hogs
Kept out in a pen
Would deep fry the eggs
From one of their hens
That Virgil would tend
Along with the crops
And baling hay
No resting, no stops,
Having toiled all day
Doing steel mill work
With his twinkling eyes
And an all-knowing smirk,
While Mabel kept home
Making butter and bread
And fresh chicken fried
That kept us all fed
On a farm playing host
To cattle and pigs
And guineas and horses
And old oil rigs
Where a Piper Cup fell
One day from the sky
And explored what was left
With the wonders and whys
The stuff that comprises
The man that I am
Their souls full of grace
And gentle as lambs.

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Parting

by on Sep.18, 2017, under Poetry

In the vacuum of departure,
Your presence becomes thought;
Distilled into the memory,
The presence you had brought.

In a town of too few people,
Fewer can be felt;
And loss intensely written
On those to whom it’s dealt.

Upon the vapor trailing,
Behind the parting jet,
The sediment of spirit
And you, I’ll not forget.

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Fingers

by on Sep.15, 2017, under Uncategorized

Three frolicking fingers serrated
By strings that musically muse;
Resulting in calloused contusion
From hours of six-string abuse.

Well known that the artist must suffer,
Tormented producing his craft;
But the artist’s suspicion would never
Suspect he’d need fingers to graft.

His anguish should stem from the ether,
By a soul and a spirit that ache
Not waylaid by cavernous fingers
Left in the suffering’s wake.

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Down the Line

by on Sep.13, 2017, under Poetry

They’re folding up tents now,
The show is leaving town;
A show that brought a smile,
Leaving nothing but a frown.

A parking lot that’s empty,
No lights ignite the night;
No revelers in chorus
Laughing in delight.

The trapeze been dismantled,
The circus rings are packed;
The big top hits the highway,
Along with every act.

New faces will be waiting
For the circus lights that shine;
When the old show reassembles
Somewhere down the line.

Nothing ever changes,
The new replace the old
To follow every footstep
In every story told.

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