By: Richard LeDue

“September Again”

Trees painting pictures with their leaves,
leaving us to ponder where they hide
their paint brushes, or why we turn
those colours into bright reminders
of approaching winter and another summer
lost, but some are lucky and just stare,
blinded by nature’s beauty to the brutality
of wrinkles pretending to be related
to crows because they can fly
and hair, grey as the moon
on the night one dies.

“Another Unwanted Poem”

Sometimes, I hide from the page
like it’s an old fashion, respectable ghost
dressed in a sheet,
but then I’m saved by whisky coloured courage,
which should probably lead to more love poems
or even an honest hobby like building model ships,
instead of just me,
staring at the walls and my hands,
so damned sure it all connects to something
brilliant and world changing
that I start writing slanted, crooked poems
fuelled by my own slurred words,
only to wake up the next day
and find another unwanted poem.

“Married to the Dust”

There’s too many love poems
scribbled inside old notepads
and left to settle for a loveless marriage
with the dust,
leaving no one to take a chance
beyond a polite “hello.”

Then there’s Al Purdy falling in love at 78,
giving death something
to think about,
sort of like the headless praying mantis
content it didn’t just settle
for a broken heart instead.