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I have a small patch of land
with some grass, a little pond,
flower beds full of plants
the world chose
in the key of chaos

I can sit in it
while madness swirls
and clamps down
and can find
a jot of peace

But I know others can’t,
so I will hold my knee from jerking
while we all figure out
a better way to be
A True Story
by Michael R. Burch

for Jeremy Michael Burch

Jeremy hit the ball today
when he and I went out to play.
He hit it, oh, so far away,
a neighbor had to throw it back!

Jeremy hit the ball so hard
it flew into the neighbor’s yard
and caught the other kids off-guard;
they thought it was an air attack!

Jeremy hit the ball again,
above the sun, beyond the wind;
as we watched it soar and slowly spin ...
we gave high-fives for his awesome smack!

Keywords/Tags: baseball, hitting, backyard, child, children, childhood, kids, fence, neighbor, yard, play, air, home run, homer, high-fives
Xxero Apr 2019
Sharon Talbot Jul 2018
How do you tell if she’s a lady,
When she’s turning eighty five?
She doesn’t wear much jewelry
No furs or fancy styles.

She doesn’t play croquet,
But likes to root instead through dirt.
Her uniform’s a crumpled hat,
Old shoes and a muddy shirt.

You can find her on any sunny day,
Outside in all weather,
Stacking stone and hauling hay.
Collecting white stones & robin feathers.

But don’t dare swear or she’ll object!
Don’t watch **** TV or
She’ll tell you what to do instead:
“Rake some leaves or sweep this floor!”

She might strike you as old Rose Sayer,
Prim, proper and cold.
And to God each night she’ll say a prayer,
“Jesus please, don’t let me get old!”

Dedicated to Mom, Who Believes in Living Forever
Mom is 91 now and bed-ridden, sadly, but she had, as they say, a good innings, using most of it up on yard work which made her feel good (for some odd reason)...
K Balachandran Jun 2018
wind kidnapped the clouds,
stars out on sky yard to play;
it rains silver light!
elms in the front yard
have started to exhibit
autumn's amber hues
Erik McKee Feb 2018
Pecans cracking under the weight of the world,  
and Chimney's left to fight the good fight against tyranny.
And Reni is still here, rapping on the brunt of the neglected woman,
who has no face, but for the bruises, and no name but for the statistic.
They feel like unpeople
less real than Atlas holding up the bough of the sky,
more ethereal than the stolen fire of Prometheus.
But I'm born from it all: the sky, the fire, the fist of the immigrant,
the gun of the lover, husband, father, mentor.  

Charcoal leaves remain, shredded by a mower's blade.
And crimson hedge trimmings, glittering with the Fall dew,
and the sanguine spray from Eddie's cleft finger.
His contribution to the job; his payment?
Possibly. Were it given willingly, rather than taken,
forced by the circumstance of winter and fatigue,
smelling of Cheetos, tortillas and coffee.
Written after a long day of work, and a lot of bad news.
Loretta Proctor Feb 2018
In my back yard are growing things
and tubs of this and that.
I lean out of the window
and watch the sun go down
on my back yard.
The bats come flying from the pines.
In circles, round and round,
they skirt the trees
and make their squeaky sound,
the bats in my back yard.
Just listen to that last, sweet chirp
of blackbirds fluting song,
as sleepy birds now roost
in my backyard.
I listen for a long, long time
And watch the sun go down,
peaceful and tranquil
in my back yard.

Loretta Proctor
a peace on summer breeze
let sunshine on the trees
and psychedelic days ablaze
with vivid colors in this haze

sky at dusk would lie in wait
and serene was the moon
nearing fate that water was sedate
and the pool flattered me

smiles were frozen upon themselves
with clover and chairs
clustered this grille; with shish kabob  
and flavor that savored the heat

where fire instilled tonight
fore the air was succumb
to this lazy hour of credit
in this town as love beamed

straight to the heart
where tears were heartfelt
and roses where red vinyl was hot
and spun well with the next track
Diána Bósa Jun 2017
It's happened on your last watch.
In a lonesome salvage yard,
she - who was raised by machines - like
an electric shadow on a hopeless, desolate street in Berlin,
was risen by
the taste of your swallowed tears as bitter as gall,
the music of your careless heartbeats singing
its own song of rust,
exhaling radiowaves for picture and thus
bring you into life again
by reshaping the man - from the sounds of wind chimes
and piano accords - who you were
more than half a life ago.
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