Poetry
It Was Happy Hour
in our Florida retirement village we were on the patio ice cubes clinking in our gin and tonics conversations rising sinking from a tree next
David Schelhaas
February 28, 2015
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in our Florida retirement village we were on the patio ice cubes clinking in our gin and tonics conversations rising sinking from a tree next
Smidt’s burning bush has tongues of flame that dance and leap in autumn’s winds. The oaks that shed their dull brown leaves seem to look
Hacking through a thicket of noise to reach some clearing within myself I am lost in a jangled jungle of thoughts Tossed about in the
It is almost 8 now the crowds have gone and the festival tents are packed away inside their Rubbermaid totes for another year of hibernation
For the Director, to the tune of “The Cup of Mourning.” Dawn, in her tattered veils, wafts one last breath over the pond like a
Such dubious tutors: the upwardly mobile drone whose instinct sinks his career with a single sting; the flim-flam deer tick, upended, six legs waving, with
He loosens his work-tie’s noose-knot, ascending a staircase climbing above our grey earth, fallen leaves clotting gutters in the car-park where a divorced neighbor, half-lifed,
What do we mean when we say children are God’s artistry as preachers are wont to do during baptisms, deleting from their homilies words like
The day I stood on the clipped grass of Olds College – after palming Norquay, Chinook, and Neepawa, until my fingers had unlocked their doors,
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