An Ode to New England

poem, poems, poetry

It’s not about where you are going but where you have gone.

In autumn.

The Green Mountains roll

Like a Jackson Pollock painting.

My mind sits together; fits like a puzzle.

Waves lap like a thirsty, salty, dog.

Each of the six states

Eroding into the Atlantic and Mid-West.

From the Canadian tip of Maine to

Cape Cod’s cranberry bogs.

Yankees tea party

At the idea of King’s Tax.

Boston John

poem, poems, poetry

His decaf brewed from the K-cup single mug.

Sat steaming in a small white Styrofoam cup.

Double cupped to protect his palms from the heat.

He has a scar that splits his hairline

Like a pine needle lying across a crack in the concrete.

Palming the glowing tip of his Marlboro Menthol

He stopped for a moment to catch his breath.

From the running consciousness and the chasing of breath.

He cupped both palms around the clean cut

Ember of dried leaves.

He breathed that heated smoke

Down into Irish Italian lungs.

Dry foliage rustles afoot.

Spark carries sweet breath away with the wind.