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jack green Poems
Rough is this coat i wear soiled and torn from to many falls. A cold shadow casts me forward as a flame consumes the wick. This numb existence i possess stares at reckless abandon because. Of to many choices ignored while being delivered mistakes picked.
The sun slowly rises in the east as the morning mist gives way. The generations gathered to celerbrate the cycles, to feast, dance and pray. Our fathers kept tradition all arrived to this same hallowed ground. Like all of their fathers before brave yet peaceful and profound.
Too Old For Tears
Many are days weeks and years. Now am too old for salty tears. Sadness replaced the youthful dreams. Lost time won the battle to me it seems.
Written In The Stars
As the gentle southern rain softly whispers of you. The ache i carry deep in my heart washes over me Just once more to see those green eyes of beautiful hue Staring right back at me, oh the changes you will see.
Barren Is The Vine
The cracked cobblestone memories, are heavy with time. As are the wrinkles, on my once young face. Carved by the years, burned by the sun, barren is the vine. Cold fingers now reap the harvest, of this empty place.
To have and hold more precious than gold. Waste not and want not is what has been told. Beware of the wicked have faith till the end. Count all of your blessings cherish your friends.
Baring the weight of burden, carried deep in my soul. Searching for passage to wisdom, not once hearing the bell toll. Peering through eyes filled with visions, of mistakes made long ago. Caught by a blistering whirlwind, scorching me from within.
Where An Orphan Sleep's
The starving and the homeless begging in the street. Have the only notion of what frost feels like on bare feet. Places where an orphan sleep alone and out of sight. Heated only by a candle not much for them to bare.
Have you ever felt cast away a nameless wave on a forgotten sea? Did you think you could hold on against a never relenting wind? Do you find yourself caught between what could have been and used to be? Did you really think you were right, life is sweet until the bitter end.
Truth is a word with only one meaning. Twisted at times half told not ringing. Wrestled from doubt showing the wear. Crippled from use without even a care.
I find myself at loss in doubt. Is it worse or better? Do I have a clue what its all about? And does it really matter?
I remember smell of honeysuckle in the soft morning breeze. The shimmering sun dancing on the lake and piercing the trees. So varied are the colors the Autumn leaves will make the eye strain. From beauty not contained, peaceful the sound of softly falling rain
Lost hope heartless those hoof beats pound. Raising the dust form these red clay grounds. Chasing the federals like demon hell hounds. To the city of Chattanooga.
Destroyer Of Men
There are people who, and I know not why. With bitter heart dark deeds they ply. The end they seek the power they crave. Is taken from people encountered along the way.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Rough is this coat i wear soiled and torn from to many falls.
A cold shadow casts me forward as a flame consumes the wick.
This numb existence i possess stares at reckless abandon because.
Of to many choices ignored while being delivered mistakes picked.
A street light in the distance my old friend always leading the way.
To the next disappointment certainly waiting its turn to tare at my coat.
Hollowed eyed and with empty stare i proceed to my continuing decay.
Reassured of the only outcome available will be good at best remote.