Like Larry

Elizabeth, night mgr at Denny's

The pretty woman holds

Two jobs. She doesn't rest.

Another apple hanging on the tree.

And midnight now enfolds

The heathen and the blessed

Where she sat and visited with me.

As beautiful as gold,

Platonic which is rare,
I wonder is she educated too.

She isn't very old.

Improbable the fair

Must do what ordinary people do.

Very like a dream

She walks throughout a sleep

Where sit the bumptious, drunken, loud and vain.

She makes the diner seem

A talisman to keep

When you're alone and standing in the rain.

Rupert Brooke

I have read no poems

More beautiful than Brooke -

Words in combination -

Two words together – magic!

Millay is still enchanting -

Keats remains The Prince -

But Rupert Brooke – god killed him

On his way to war -

To Give

To give. A need as deep as any other.

Thwarted by a father and a mother.

The lonely feel it stronger than the rest.

The unattached or crazy do it best.

The unattached or crazy feel the beast.

They give the most although they have the least.

In isolation crying by the sea

They wait for what god said will never be.

Class

People who have class sit on the mantel,

Never a faux pas or solecism.

Between them and the folks who paw the earth

Reaches a ravine, a trench, a schism.

The herds look up and whisper, “They are gods.”
The few who rise above look down and pray.

Naked or arrayed, they are the same,

And seem it when in graves they're laid away.

But those with class have gold and ornate tombs.

Awesome to the herds, they are sublime.

Common folk are buried under dirt,

And the very poor in bags of lime.

 

Like Larry

Is it generous to give

You money, service, time and soul

To someone who would walk away

But for your largesse?

Larry Hart tossed bucks around

In a grotesque charity

To people that he didn't know,

And would never see again.

Did Larry do this to be loved?

Do roots reach down so deeply?
Three days in the rain like Jesus -

Then he died alone.

 

The Fantasy

Beautiful and young,

Standing by the sea -

A melody is sung,

And this is poetry.

Slowly it appears

He looks with with love at me,

Evoking ancient fears,

Strength and frailty.

My love begins to talk.

Maybe, no and yes,

Sadness, joy – a walk

Through my unconsciousness.

 If you like my poems, I have some collections on Amazon, both paperbacks and Kindle.  Type Joseph Hart Poetry on the search bar.