This great potential.,

these un-launched gifts,

this passion guarded,

these powers on hold,

waiting for the years to catch up…

and then what?

the self-loathing

of the possible laid waste,

of promise somewhere

to the rear of years,

a crippled soldier

grabbing at the dirt, the air…

not nonpareil, not champion,

not lauded, merely dignified

by ocean cruising up the toes,

sand a-foot, sun and shadow,

or, camped out on the rocks,

as waves roll in,

a sanguine pose amidst

sharp-shinned splinters splattering.

 

 

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One response »

  1. sk iyer says:

    dear john, a good poem, sanguinely posed. enjoyed. regards, sk.

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