MADMAN ACROSS THE WATER

Just a crazy old guy,
collecting poems as if they were cats.
Stumbling, sometimes mumbling to himself.
"Moon, June, bafoon...", this lyrical loon
searches for the right word. The way
he plays with nomenclature, they're all right.
Off to his outpost, with a host of other
rhyming things, he sings words to a song
he had once written, smitten with a lovely.
Above him a placard bearing quotations,
and random notations; nuggets to ponder.
Yonder is a file box, stocked with pages:
rants and rages, laments and upstages.
A poetic pariah, lost in a world
in which every street leads to the
center of his worded thunder.
It's no wonder others of his ilk
seek distance, with some resistance
to be sure. Purely speaking, they are seeking
his persistence and reticence. He pens in perfect
solitude, an attitude he's acquired
to be all he's desired; full throttle ahead.
Damn the torpedoes. Across the lake
he takes his stand. Just a crazy old guy.

Walt

FOREST FIRE

Rising out of the trees,

a misty wafting of moisture raising 

skyward amidst the changing leaves, colors

ablaze against an ashen sky. Much heat in the 

oranges, warmth in the golden hues, the 

crackle of crimson, crisp and clear. 

From here, as 

the morning 

awakens, my 

soul is shaken 

by the beauty,

and stirred by 

the illusion; 

visual intrusion

of autumnal foliage,

appearing to smolder as night bids adieu.

Walt