Poetry from Patrick Ward

AUTUMN’S RAIN

There’s a certain time of year that the rain drops take on different colors.
Instead of falling from the sky, it falls from the trees.
Taking on the form of leaves, with the whistling wind,
driving them in the direction that it wants them to go.
Drifting away in a rapid dance,
they float into the middle of nowhere.
Until the rain of many colors.
reaches their final resting place.

*****

MINGLED GESTURES

The voices of careless words pollute the air.
Someone who is sensitive might happen to be there.
Among the crowd some gesture, while others stare.
Somewhere in the midst of the crowd is a hidden snare.
Tender hearts sometimes are misplaced.
Wounded gestures received in the memory can’t be replaced.
In the mind of the sensitive they’re hard to erase.
It’s difficult when confronted face to face.
Senseless gestures fill the soul.
As negative thoughts roll.
By the act of the will.
Gestures are removed, and joy is fulfilled.

*****

ON THE OUTSIDE LOOKING IN

 

The desire is misplaced.
In the dense fog.
The mist hides what is really there.
Wanting what everyone else has.
But lacking in opportunity.
Until the mist disappears.
The longing will not be satisfied.
Until someone to hold is present.

*****

THE ENEMY OF CONFINEMENT

Annoying is the silence my heart must bear.
Raging winds of cold loneliness form a dark cloud of deep despair.
Damp and deafening silence is seemingly taking refuge in the misty air.
Merciless is the cruel art of confinement,
with no end of a tunnel being there.
Doubt and hopelessness cast their dreadful snare.

Harbored sadness, submits the heart to sorrowfully dwell.
In the state of mind are tormenting thoughts of a prison cell.
Distant is the sound of freedom’s bell.
Images of fun and laughter, disappears into an old rusty nail.
Wandering around like a sheep, white and pale.
So does the enemy drive to compel.

*****

MY NAME MUD

My name is mud.
I give kids something to play in when they’re bored.
I have no responsibility for them getting in trouble with their mother.
I’m ate up with blue knots, invisible to the naked eye.
All they see is moist dirt.
Making up my elements.
And that – my friend, is why my name is mud.

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