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John Tansey Poems
At end, when it is too late to start anew.
My Mother...Victimized with Dementia
My mother, I have not seen her in years;
A Tragedy in Two Acts.....The slow death...
ACT I It was not your presence, rather its absence
My mind goes from mood to mood, With no chronology nor sequence of events; The effect of one thing falling into
Letting Go......To be, or not to be?
Upon a roof, A potential leaper, Held by the hand of his savior In a fingerlock hold on humanity.
A Love Poem for Anyone...
For you, the hapless peruser, who happens to thumb upon this page, along a dusty shelf of books. Was not haphazard at all;
A Whittle of Words...
A Whittle of Words... Sitting, slumped in a chair, On a wooden porch And under the sun
Broken...Very short, terse poem
Like a wild Stallion that wont be saddled, spitting the bit, I bucked and threw every rider galloping toward the infinite open....
THE ABYSS OF THE POEM....
With hand unsteady, I stop at the first line’s edge of a jagged poem, looking down
Reminiscing on Childhood…
Reminiscing on Childhood… I
SEPARATION.....I am so sorry
Engaged, plotting marriage, I nodded, while looking through you
There were Angels in Harrison...restored...
I lived beneath my children, For a brief but harried time. Yet, I knew solace that winter,
I Live with Ghosts.................
Everywhere I go, I am surrounded by ghosts. They are very lonely, like me,
Childhood....For my sons, wherever they ...
Is a boy with a kite, Who, catching the wind like a winged gull,
(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)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
At end, when it is too late
to start anew.
When every chance to fly
lies like dead birds in your rear view
It was not out of love
nor any childhood dream
That we ran, ignoring every wonder
of life only to wind up here
By accident, and looking up to see
in the vaguely familiar face
of a stranger
every soulful longing of home
since we, last, left it
A sense of familiarity
running behind me as I left
Saying, 'Here, is your coat
you will catch cold'
Life is nothing more than this
a walk around the block when you...