Tag Archives: poetry

Haiku to you Thursday: “Blinking idiot”

use blinking blinkers /

you fool in front of me, or /

Spring will end too soon.

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Haiku to you Thursday: “Key clouds”

Keys in the sky.

Clouds play overhead: /

Black and white keys against blue. /

Tunes of life’s embrace.

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Haiku to you Thursday: “Walls”

The walls

The sky collapses. /

The enemies march outside. /

The walls fall in.

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Haiku to Thursday: “Prefer”

Some prefer answers. /

Others prefer the questions. /

Flowers prefer bees.

bumblebees_on_flower-100dpi_10x7_4c_5296-copy

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Haiku to you Thursday: “The sky”

You were once mine, /

Arrayed with the dawn’s fire: /

Reds and clouds and sun.

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Haiku to you Thursday: “Dark blooms”

Dark blooms the heart. /

Empty shines the unmade mind. /

Crisp, cold, slow night.

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“My Bowling Green”

owling-100dpi_6x11_4c_0615-copyIt’s hard being Bowling Green, /
To see the things I have seen, /
Bodies piled high as friends lean /
Upon the bars in my Bowling Green. /

The reckless came to town one day, /
Said we had all gone away, /
Gone away, no more to say /
In this place now unseen, called my Bowling Green. /

Jihadist from a foreign land /
Had come and massacred us so grand, /
Wiped us all out where we stand. /
O’ the tragedy was so mean deep in my Bowling Green. /

They say none of us were spared, /
That these terrorist did not care. /
We were lost to great despair /
That day in memory serpentine in my Bowling Green. /

The media did not take note. /
Little was said and less was wrote. /
We were left with but just a sad note, /
A sad note it would seem about my Bowling Green. /

Fredrick Douglass had nothing to say. /
Nor Oliver Wendell Douglas about that day /
When Green Acres were turned red with dismay /
O’ that sad, mean, vile scene in my Bowling Green. /

We cannot remember what we do not know, /
Though alternative facts tell us so, /
That lies and lives come and go. /
There is little we can now glean from my Bowling Green. /

They erected a sign to the non-event /
And many a word has long been spent /
In song and poem and prose unbent /
To say what can’t be seen of the wrongs in my Bowling Green. /

It’s hard being Bowling Green, /
To see the things I have seen, /
Bodies piled high as friends lean /
Upon the bars in my Bowling Green.

–photo and poem by David E. Booker

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Filed under 2017, photo by David E. Booker, poetry by author, political humor