Poetry of Issue #7        Page 15

Drunk With The Beauty Of This Day

I am a prisoner of time past
As I look out over this songbird of a harbor
And remember how boats filled with our good Irish butter
Once braved the unremitting howl of winds and storm clouds
That were like the ugliest of homemade dolls
Yet as I seek the perfection of other times now lost
And since my future no longer has a navigator
All recedes into the mists of unclear oceans
Where they bob submerged like childhood memories
Until my long walk home relieves me of such ruminations
That waft away like a discarded and disintegrating diary’s myriad and forgotten entries.

  Ken L. Jones