Here is one of those rare occassions when a poem feels at its basic finish on the first to third tries...enjoy...hate...speak

"Great Spirit Moon..."

January moans
I wheel in the fire wood
with an old wood-wagon
my boots slip around
on the ice under a
noon blanket of fresh snow
I begin to think I need spikes
when I quickly disappear
from eye level vision
to the ground below
I've had this feeling before,
falling, in some time passed
and visibly forgotten
I wonder why such things
stir my blood and shake my bones
as I am pulling the wagon
nearing to its rest
one of the dogs scratches
at the glass sliding door
and I am taken back
to the moment and task
of hauling wood to the stove
load by load
by load

Orion © 2010

Travelin' Poem

 "Toast to Hannah"

young Hannah was a travelin' child
born to a call of an ancient wild
queen of another highway line
stickin' her thumb out most of the time

looking like a wildflower in the sun on the side of the road though
she never be quick to admit she know so

bearing the foot of a soul sewn new
a smile way too hard to see
like a blind man tryin 'to eye a rain drop
on top an ol' redwood tree

the curve of a lost child and
voice of nervousness
unlike any girl I've ever met
now and since

if you're ever looking for a travelin' book
just look at the road young Hannah took
there you'll see foot prints o' black
shinnin' like obsidian and sharp as glass

to feel sorrow married to freedom
just watch young Hannah's
shackles and path




Seamus Fitzgerald
copyright 2010