Memorized
in childhood days
It
rained for weeks
And
the river burst its banks
The
constant wind
Whipping
the oak
That
I grew from an acorn
a Bronx Spring
Father,
I can still recite the verse
Popular Posts
-
Walking the rows Of aged and sunken stone I came across a large patchwork feral cat Laying at its feet Was the still, small b... -
The monolith stood before us. It's sudden and unexpected appearance in the woodland clearing, more than a little disconcerting. -
.jpg)
My new poetry and prose collection, Southpaw Nights , is out now in paperback and for Kindle via Amazon. Published by James Ward Kirk F... -
The room fills with bugs As I struggle to write by lamplight Summer’s heat can drive one to kill Or at least mortally wound I th...
-
Benjamin Blake offers up an extremely personal collection of poetry for Secret History Books . Heartbreak and loss, cigarettes smoked and... -
There’s blood on these hands And death in the air I’ve been gone for so long That I can’t recall Where it was I came from O, but I ha...
Categories
Text Widget