‘Shopping list’ and other poems by  M.L. Fenton

By:  M.L. Fenton

Shopping list

She had beautiful penmanship (something.
I’ve always lacked)

I thought as I looked at her

Shopping list:
Hot dog relish
Bananas (two, ripped from the bunch)
Reader’s digest

Me, hurried and slightly annoyed
after work.

Discarding the shopping list in the
buggy, continuing with the minutiae
of my, oh so important life.

later when she’s gone

I’m always looking for those
shopping lists with her lovely handwriting

when my hands touch the cold handle of any shopping cart.



Dawn has arrived
the porch light is soft In the early
morning mist.

Last night’s violent waves have calmed
And the blue-black midnight passed

I enjoy the feel of the worn, Wooden
porch steps under my bare feet as i
listen to the dawn Chorus.

I Imagine for a moment that my life could
be as carefree as that of a


I braved the night, but the clock always
starts ticking again

just after dawn



I never noticed the rolling green hills until
I reached adulthood. My focus was always
on the cement touching my feet.

Same with the excised building, a
ramshackle Dive-bar on its finest day.
In the 2 x 8 blocks

Hemmed in by a highway and two rivers
(who’s names Pre-date this nation we live in).
Gone was The decay, behind it lush greenery

Soon in this fair season of rebirth the
Lot will be filled with clover flowers and
Perennial rye, that will shimmer and shake
by an unseen hand.

a wilder no more



everything was better after he died, Though
the darkness still lingers

It will never go away, entirely. I have come to accept this fact. Murder

Is not a common occurrence
(in most circles)
A lost life should be mourned but

Everything was better after he died. We live
In the fog, We do not to speak about it.

(Speak brings unwanted questions and bitter discoveries)
The fog is clean, the menace dissipated.

Even in our bleakest moments- filled with so much spite.

(We’ve grown so cold)

we are still better after he died.



We need to talk about something that
Happened to us in that burned out house
On hazel St.

You were my first playmate, our mothers
Were best friends. When you moved away
I was lost for a long time.

We roamed around the neighborhood with
Very little supervision and sometimes found
Ourselves in peril

When I look back, Several things happened
all at once I entered puberty, you left and I started hating myself.

I have a disturbing memory of us playing
In that burnt out house; a disjointed laugh
A missing slice of time

A discourse I’ll have with the night because
I’ll never have the courage to broach the
subject with you.

Categories: Poetry

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