CREEK ROAD GANG
Your Subtitle text
Joe Quinton: 3 Poems
copyright 2010
Down South
I lived where palm trees grow
with never spring exploding
no bursts of color
white, yellow, pink, red
appearing unexpectedly
green monotonous green
ruled over all colors
pointing up the heat that
commanded all the weather
AUGUST
Now is mock summer
Heated days
Then night chill.
Invisible choruses of crickets
Replace luminous fireflies.
Each day smaller
As sun slowly shuts its light.
Trees show a full canopy of green
But branches already have color
Some red, some yellow
No field flower has replaced
The clover scent of late July.
There are still blooms
But memory says
They are autumn flowers.
August whispers
Dark winter is ahead
UNTITLED
In the yards the apple trees
keep hanging on, but the fruit
grows smaller year by year Mueller
Sooner, later, some event occurs
alerting you to a homely truth
time is not what it was
a thought once incomprehensible.
Are our eyes open for the signal?
or would we rather wait for the
Surprise
Biographical Note: Joe Quinton is a recent resident of Chester County, Pennsylvania after lives spent in Providence, Boston, West Palm Beach and Kingsville, Texas. He came to poetry after retiring and seeking some form of expression. He finds it serves as a journal of life today and a memento of what was once. Both themes appear and reappear in his poetry.Joe is a regular contributor to Creek Road Gang. See also the Author Index for Poetry and Author Index for Prose L-Z to find more of his work.
I lived where palm trees grow
with never spring exploding
no bursts of color
white, yellow, pink, red
appearing unexpectedly
green monotonous green
ruled over all colors
pointing up the heat that
commanded all the weather
AUGUST
Now is mock summer
Heated days
Then night chill.
Invisible choruses of crickets
Replace luminous fireflies.
Each day smaller
As sun slowly shuts its light.
Trees show a full canopy of green
But branches already have color
Some red, some yellow
No field flower has replaced
The clover scent of late July.
There are still blooms
But memory says
They are autumn flowers.
August whispers
Dark winter is ahead
UNTITLED
In the yards the apple trees
keep hanging on, but the fruit
grows smaller year by year Mueller
Sooner, later, some event occurs
alerting you to a homely truth
time is not what it was
a thought once incomprehensible.
Are our eyes open for the signal?
or would we rather wait for the
Surprise
Biographical Note: Joe Quinton is a recent resident of Chester County, Pennsylvania after lives spent in Providence, Boston, West Palm Beach and Kingsville, Texas. He came to poetry after retiring and seeking some form of expression. He finds it serves as a journal of life today and a memento of what was once. Both themes appear and reappear in his poetry.Joe is a regular contributor to Creek Road Gang. See also the Author Index for Poetry and Author Index for Prose L-Z to find more of his work.
Photo by Tom Varley
