Let's file this clothing in the closet of most likely
to cover nearly all areas, and enclose things with
leads lowered, humidity there and sifting through
fibers, to say nothing of snow - it's to pile it there -
all of them upon the bed, a stack like laundry,
but produced by visitors.
They work away at talking, compiling story upon
story of a mosaic, a fiber here and there, a check
and a stripe, meanwhile a tweed and light, brave
nylon, patterned to be light and vigorous, to say
nothing of blizzards of cloth, stark nights of
formidable forecasts, of, a change in the coat.
Boast no more of the cold, or death defying
wandering about in the dread of midnight with
nothing pertaining to a friend or someone withered
from staying out all day and night, frozen to the bone,
or the button or zipper - it won't close for never
being tested for tasks such as these,
trials without equal.
© 2016 Larry Ingram
It's a snipe of time, this walking at dusk,
staring at me - the telltale sign of impending
doom - to look at again as though to
impossibly slow the day into night,
yet never to accomplish show colors,
bursts of color.
We'll start earlier next time, before the rush,
before the dim, the mansions bellow of
aging things we never saw before, the
cloud of remembrance, never to take back
what was gained or lost, never to travel
that dusk day again.
Let's talk of breathing - rightly, if we can
take a moment to ponder further operations -
metabolic impulses they are - to train the mind,
to move when lethargy says it will come again -
tomorrow with likely be similar, but strangely
With another, legs are energized, enlivened,
taken another mile a distance just beyond that
shadow, the emblem of leaves dead, but living
in dusk, in the fog of life, it's there and we
can see, how far we should go when we reach
© 2016 Larry Ingram
Rolls and rolls of steel, crunching sand, salt or
errant mists of dust, wafting the brittle caverns,
concrete scarred, clamoring for attention,
although decrepit laborers linger throughout.
Place your feet in these, these containers for
rifling through life, stratus spheric statements
while panting up the path, worn but silent
for neighbors dissing friendly exercise, blues
and whites fight over sun, sky, moon darkness.
A daylight of suspicion, of numerous looks,
some kind, some cautious, many taking odds
with rational footwork, the most sensible of
trainers stating the obvious way to tire of
hearing, listening - and of working the body.
It's a well known fact that the path of least
resistance is truly the path of least resistance,
plastic guards drawn as in skirmish, as in a
lighthearted throb toward loads of sore muscles,
they'll never think of crossing trestles.
Welcome to the poetry web site of Larry Ingram. Larry is a poet, writer and observer of our culture.