My husband's poetry

Category: freedom

  • Reading Anne Frank

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    by

    cfblack
    in , , , , ,

    I wonder what became of the family who hid Anne Frank in an upstairs room I wonder if one of my siblings or a childhood friend would have turned her family in and gloated as they were hauled away I wonder if I would have the strength of character to say, “No More” 1-29-25

  • The exile

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    unaffected by its lack of freedom songbird sings from its cage hanging on a hook In the corner you doze in the lap of 21st century luxury unwilling to sing because you feel uncomfortable 6-23-23

  • Draw Two

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    stray dog drags its chain, stands warily at a distance, tail wags like the metronome on Mrs. Crooks’ piano you edge close, grab the end of the chain dog barks, growls and charges you stand firm, jerk its chain it lays obediently at your feet, whimpers, the dog guides you up the street, stops at…

  • Tanka of wet grass

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    clear, clean morning air last night’s rain still drips from trees yellow bus brakes grind sullen children go to school childhood stolen chained to chairs 9-13-23

  • A free meal is never free

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    by

    cfblack
    in ,

    barking dog welcomes daylight lone bird calls in the bush …failure to communicate a fenced animal cannot understand freedom It only wants to be set free 10-1-23

  • mount up and fly

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    by

    cfblack
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    you don’t need a pin through your abdomen or gutted and stuffed by taxidermist to prove you are a special being and in danger of becoming extinct mount up and fly while you still can 12-9-24

  • Unmoved

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    by

    cfblack
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    (a poem for Trans awareness day) in an overgrown garden half-hidden in the weeds a concrete statue of Mary stands unmoved and alone a point of meditation long forgotten the sun shines through the clouds in subtle pinks, blues and green lichen illuminates her face clouds return to block the sun her kindness gives me…

  • Slapstick

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    11/05 – some call me Polly Anna, because I am still an optimist – it’s only a part-time avocation ————————————————- Buster Keaton turned slapstick into an art form, Excuse me while I go hurt myself and Try to walk away oblivious to pain Humor is only allowed, if you laugh at yourself Just another form…

  • Poem before dying

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    by

    cfblack
    in , ,

    Lorca wrote of roosters, of eating cemetery grass, of weeping little boys, of snow, of guitars, of murder, of women dropping off to sleep, of a resurrection that will never come, and he makes me weep. I write of barking dogs and feral cats, of trash on asphalt courts, of weeping little boys, of warm…