Posts Tagged ‘free verse’

April Breeze

Posted: September 17, 2016 in Poems
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April Breeze

By Norton Nearly – from Shiny Spaceships

I am sitting under a sour cherry tree
 in an equally sour mood
 when the lilac bush offers a sweet hug of encouragement
 but I wave off the sickening proposition in apathy.

 From nowhere, a powerful gust chases sweet and sour alike
 as if some therapeutic pterodactyl flapped his wings on the other side of the world.

Meanwhile, the birds chirp about the approaching rain
 the cat licks her hind paw because she can
 and my mood lightens unexplainably as the cleansing drops begin to fall.

And I thought dinosaurs were extinct.

(from the book, “Shiny Spaceships stuck on dead-end dirt roads, available on Amazon)

When the local fire siren wailed
us kids knew it was time to go home
now it means
some poor bastard is losing all he owns

Once the weeds were pulled and sidewalk swept
I could hike in the woods for hours
Now there are so many weeds that sidewalks never get swept
and my kid can’t walk down her own street alone

Mom stayed home all day, cleaned and cooked
Dad worked until it was time for a few Manhattans
kids never sat on the living room furniture
and we knew how to shut the hell up and listen

Now everyone works and everyone cooks
and everyone needs a few Manhattans
the living room furniture is worn thin
and nobody shuts up enough to hear anything at all


Posted: March 7, 2015 in Poems
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by Norton Nearly
from the book, Stained White Shirt, contact for info on purchasing a copy

hate boils
like broth in a covered pot
spills over
messes the stove
burns the cook


Posted: February 28, 2015 in Poems
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by Norton Nearly
from the book Stained White Shirt
contact at for info on purchasing a copy

She grew from a
fine Burgundy vine
He poured from a
cheap cask of Port

meets Robusta

Fine Teuscher chocolate
paired with a foil wrapped kiss

She was rare and wanted
like a French forest truffle
He was common and accepted
like a back yard spore

oak barrel whiskey
plastic jug hootch

a hand-rolled Cuban
a machine made cig

She matured like a
cave-aged Roquefort
he grew old like a
plastic wrapped slice

and clams

Russian Imperial stout
with domestic lager

Together they consumed all
fine and fair
couldn’t see labels
as for classes didn’t care
They simply enjoyed the bounty
of life
lived and loved
as man and wife

It’s love that decides
who compliments who
and finding truth in love
is the best you can do

or so he dreamed
looking at her a mansion on the hill
as he drove on past
in his imaginary Coupe de Ville


Posted: February 22, 2014 in Poems
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I’m tired of my neighbor
six-foot-four of know it all obnoxiousness

it’s hard to be sensitive when you are six-foot-four
but could he try a little harder

he yells at the grandkids
he yells at the wife
he yells just so everyone can hear him

living near someone
doesn’t mean you are like them
I am beginning to understand
parallel fences

the Sherriff came by
that neighbor is gonna lose his house
to foreclosure
I feel real bad and will miss him when he’s gone
but for now, this neighbor needs a fence
soundproof if they make one

he screams at everybody
knows it all
or so he thinks

he’s not a bad guy
he means well
but he pushes everyone around him
deep down into his well

maybe foreclosure stress
is behind
his nastiness
what then
was his previous excuse

habits form
we drown in them
and become them

maybe in his new place
he’ll calm down, relax
stop yelling
know less
lose a few inches

I’ll never know
he’s one of those neighbors who once gone,
you never see them again

with new neighbors
maybe I won’t want a fence
maybe they will

when neighbors
pull out of their driveways
they go in different directions

Raining Down

Posted: December 14, 2013 in Poems
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Raining Down

Have you ever simply sat
and watched the drops fall
watched them bounce
or slide down the pane
What did you dream of
as they fell
and when the down poor stopped
did you chase that desire
or use those drops
as just another excuse to wait

Tending The Flock

Posted: September 14, 2013 in Poems
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Tending The Flock

He is penned in;
a colorful bird
in a confining place
coveted by the cockerels

He dreams of escaping
the pen
to a field of inspiration
where free-range roosters
can scratch concepts out of the dirt
unimpeded by responsibility

Like some forlorn capon
the rooster doesn’t crow
he acquiesces to his perch
he does his duty
and the flock is safe

But rising before the girls
he scratches what he can
and struts around his yard
digging up ideas