PoetryPause Blog – Matthew Ashbrook

Tag: Rhyme

Bell Curve

by on Jul.16, 2018, under Poetry

She was tall
And she was lean,
Freckled with
The Irish gene.

Quick to smile,
Quick to laugh;
At thirty-one
She joined my staff.

For a decade
Side by side
Up and down
On every ride.

A melody
Upon the staff;
In the end,
A Bell Curve graph.

Books and movies,
Songs and verse
Start and end,
It’s nature’s curse.

And that was that,
The whole in half –
No more freckles,
No more laugh.

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Moorings

by on May.10, 2018, under Poetry

He’s carved out a spot,
A nest for his bones;
Removed all the twigs,
The sticks and the stones.

A surface as smooth
As a road freshly paved
And scented the spot
To assure it’d be saved.

In the dappling of sunlight
He peruses his realm;
A confident dog
In charge, at the helm.

We all should find fortune
This canine has found;
A place to call home
To which we are bound.

Where resting comes easy
And fears are at bay;
A place we can ponder
Our birth and decay.

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Corner Pocket

by on Apr.29, 2018, under Poetry

The musty scent of an old pool hall,
Where smoke still hangs in the air and all;
The fabric worn from the table tops
By years of use and pool hall props.

Where rough-hewn men would wield the cues,
The corner juke-box boomed the blues
And blue jeaned girls in halter tops
Nursed the beverage brewed from hops.

The faded posters, parched and dry,
Reflect the time of times gone by;
Farah Fawcett, Indian bikes
Long before the friends and likes.

An ancient pack of Marlboros sits
Upon the counter where time quits;
Yellowed now like those who smoked
The cancer sticks that smokers choked.

Remnants of the seasons passed,
Preserved in dust like sculptures cast;
The juke box silent like a muse
Still can fill a room with blues.

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Light

by on Mar.01, 2018, under Poetry

I like the way I feel
When she’s sitting next to me;
It’s not a feeling of what’s gone
Or a future that might be;
A feeling of some comfort
And contentment through and through;
A feeling of well-being
Though defining’s hard to do.
Kind of like a promise lost
When days turn into night
But just as it is getting dark
She reaches for the light.

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Walking Rocky

by on Dec.08, 2017, under Poetry

The time is drawing near,
The dog must go outside;
To take a little walk,
Relieving his inside.

But now the snow is falling
And the wind is rather brisk,
I’d like to wait ‘til summer
But I can’t take the risk.

He’s small, his bladder likewise,
So he can’t wait that long
But still procrastinating
The waiting I prolong.

He’s dancing by the doorway,
He whines to beckon me –
Just a few more minutes
And we’ll go find a tree.

He cocks his head to listen,
To understand my plea;
Let’s get your coat and mittens
Or sorry you will be.

We do for others often
Some things we’d rather not;
But when you care for others,
This is what you’ve got.

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Thanksgiving 2017

by on Nov.23, 2017, under Poetry

Time to stuff a turkey’s corpse
With sage and stale bread;
He won’t mind a bit at all
‘Cause after all he’s dead.

All his feathers plucked and pulled,
He’s naked on the stove;
His neck and giblets found inside,
A hidden treasure trove.

Through the body’s cavity
You reach ‘til deep within
And fumble ‘round his empty chest
Where once his lungs had been.

Pulling out the bag of guts
To cook or to discard;
A message from the now deceased –
The turkey’s calling card.

Cremated in the oven’s wrath,
The hours pass you by;
‘Til all the body fluids drain
While all your guests standby.

Retrieve the largest knife you own
And slice it through his skin;
Then divvy up the bird’s bequest
And feed him to your kin.

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EuroTrash

by on Nov.22, 2017, under Poetry

When I was growing up a boy
The races all were known
By color that their skin evoked,
The shading and the tone.

The natives of America
Were known for their red skin,
The Asians from the Orient,
Their shade a yellow spin.

Hispanics every shade of brown,
And Africans were black,
And marauding Europeans were
White for pigment lacked.

None of course the color called,
‘Twas just a useful tool –
Pointed out the origins
Not meant as being cruel.

Offensive I found at the time
A simple child’s toy –
Crayola Crayons multi-pack
That brought so many joy.

For inside each and every box
A color wrapped and bound;
Labeled with the signature,
A crayon flesh was found.

As a child, I found this strange
As everybody’s skin
Was flesh of equal quantity
Though many not my twin.

The crayon mimicked white man’s skin,
Not yellow, red or black –
As if the only flesh there was
Was that upon my back.

I doubt that crayon bears that name
Today as once it did,
But it disturbed me at the time
When I was just a kid.

Identifying people now
By color isn’t right,
But somehow through the changing times
I’m referenced yet as white.

So heretofore I call on you
To tag me with the hash –
No longer reference me as white
But simply Euro-trash.

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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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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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Sanctuary Concerts

by on Aug.29, 2017, under Poetry

They’re closing down the venue,
Age will take its toll,
The Sanctuary Concerts
No longer will extol
The virtue of the poets
Who bring to life a song
And share the bigger picture
Of where we all belong.

A little Jersey Chapel,
A Chatham setting quaint,
An intimate arrangement
Where art and soul acquaint,
Concludes its running showcase
Of artists few will know
By name but know their songbooks,
Through others were bestowed.

McGuinn and Janice Ian,
Tom Paxton and Nick Lowe;
Suzanne Vega and Josh Ritter,
And Winchester’s last show
Where power was disrupted
And candles lit the stage
While pews of patrons gathered
‘Round Jesse to engage.

The man behind the project,
Undone by time that passed,
Unable to continue
Leaves memories that were cast –
Self-conscious teardrops forming
That fell without restraint,
Moved within the canvas
Of pictures they would paint.

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