Monet Waterloo Bridge

He sighs….
concedes a close to night
as serene and soggy haze
escorts the butter and blue
blooming on the quiet of a dawn
glistens ㅤthat painterly view
of a dozing cityscape
on too early a Sunday’s morn.
The serene will cease
and quiet meander
into a scamper of the waking
… as he finds hisself
in an ascending want
beyond the corporeal
pangs of his connoisseur’s
ㅤ yet
… somehow wistful
for those gone-days
before ㅤHer.

This nouveau phenom a…

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Free Verse

“The business of words keeps me awake…”
ㅤ ~Anne Sexton

Falling soft, at the back
of an old daydream
forgotten sound of the milkman

whistling, as he often did,
while bottles rattled ㅤan early day, waking.

I loved his son ㅤonce
before war claimed too much of his whole.
Lithium and Thorazine
taking ㅤa little more.

How well I’ve known the orneriness
in truth
it rarely sleeps (wasn’t meant to)
learned quieted hungers hinge
upon this heartㅤ like parables.

I eat the day ㅤbefore it’s sunlight mending… always mending. Sit to write ㅤ as the world burns, somewhere ear tilted to…

Image by klimkin, Pixabay

Free Verse Poetry

The Fast road
took more away from
then ever toward
this place;
the biggest trucks over iron-rails
dangle in voids
as distant rain.

She watched it slope
like lazy tail on an ol’ yeller dog
tucking itself along the falling gray.
An evening heat
thick with rhythm of crickets
(& occasional frog)
rode on a Texas-humid/ㅤslow,
slender roll
in tendrils over her sill
Tempie sprawledㅤall gangly limbs
toes inert but anxious for rain
rested weary Atlas
supporting her open window.

Sylphlike lamped in lunar wan long-shadow girl against the rage by summer bare feet waiting wet…

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Free Verse Poetry

He’ll stop playing the radio
prefer the echo of backroads driving home
hotㅤlate summerㅤblue-hour already tumblin’
old friendㅤthe Wagoneer lumbers
tires sucking early dusk air
between warm blacktop and worn tread
its thrumㅤwet purrㅤsinging her into sleep
on the back seat blanketed.

Still rested in the curve of his lip
a spar by ghosts ㅤhe’ll sense
as mustard, sweat & baby oil.
Her wet hairㅤjoin scent with day’s glistened skin.
He’ll want for a goneㅤmourn intoxicating Augusts
grow tiredㅤevening drifting orchidㅤinland
homewardㅤ …where she will wake soon
not knowing who he is.

Windows rolled downㅤfinding comfort to breeze’s rhythmic brush…

Image ArtTower, Pixabay (enhanced)

Free Verse Poetry

times even in the grip of trouble
get no less a sunrise than sun is capable
the capable beauty all we have…
–Ed Roberson

Motionlessㅤand surely dead
the sparrow’s feathers neat ㅤclaimed.
Bore cleanㅤas if to sleep somehow
it tucked its tiny feet then self
in between the eye-teeth of a cat
life-lustered black button eyes behind
buttonholes tightly stitched.

Two paws, torso stretched willed presence
proud perch upon my sunny threshold
hunter’s lime effulgent eyes glare
summoning by cat-speak,ㅤL o o o k.

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Free Verse Poetry

Light ㅤan armor in slow cascade
holds tempo in my breathing
eve settles in orange cloud where rain solidifies.
I stay awake ㅤ listen beyond this ear
the cold voice that bronzes veining death
in message leaving leaves unclenching
/detritus, littering force floating quickened
withered bittersweet & raw umber demise.
I’ll gather twigs, their going brittle in rattle,
the round a’roundㅤsun then sun,ㅤquieted
as Iㅤcan not shut these eyes
tonightㅤit seems too close an act of dying.

Touch ㅤ[touch] touch– once, in careless stepㅤbefore the air hosted panicㅤnear forgotten days that grazed upon our skin, brightened our heads in fiery…

J.L. Littlejohn

Poet/Storyteller ~A Conflict of Words in Tussle With a Pen For a Life of Rhyme. Poetry for The Lit Up, The Junction, PS I Love You, Resistance Poetry

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