Jack Growden Poems
|1.||The Captain's Brutal Night||3/21/2013|
|3.||The Brutal Full-Back||7/26/2013|
|8.||What Is A Week?||4/28/2014|
|17.||Clearer In My Dreams||7/15/2014|
|25.||Born Years Too Late||4/10/2014|
|27.||Poetry Of Motion||7/31/2014|
|30.||Brelles - French Version||7/27/2013|
|32.||Four White Walls||2/27/2014|
|33.||Fall From Grace||3/27/2014|
|35.||If You Forget Me||1/4/2014|
|37.||Owing To Ink||4/5/2014|
From a rolling hill in one green Essex field,
A splendid, sweeping vista was suddenly revealed.
Rays of sunlight appeared marking the advent of dawn,
Invigorating the gully below on this placid morn.
The autumn calm was quite crisp, but pleasantly mild,
As I drew a deep breath and simply smiled…
Ambling down the path that led to the glen below,
I caught the gentle scent of an English meadow.
Well-worn, the trail continued to meander
Through lush pastures of flowered oleander.
Towering modestly among stood the odd foreign teak,
Which by the tree further...
When the clocks did chime for the eleventh hour
Well after the Sun had completed its fall,
The darkest of Whitechapel's darkest,
Staggered from an alley, in a hunched-over crawl.
With nary a moon to behold, light was scarce,
And t'was a lamppost that brought him into view.
Such a haggard mess he was indeed,
His teeth a bare yellow few.
A matted mane sat upon his face,